


These Words are Knives

by CinnaAtHeart



Category: American Horror Story, Captain America (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Selkie, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Vampire, BAMF Darcy Lewis, Darcy Lewis is Tony Stark's Daughter, Darcyland, F/F, F/M, Gen, Narnia Xover, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Teenager Darcy, Tumblr Prompts, Winter Soldier POV, creature Darcy, mentions of self harm, non-human Sam Wilson, pre ca:tws
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots written according to <a href="http://stonelions.tumblr.com/post/124337611940/30-multipurpose-prompts-open-to-interpretation">this</a> list of prompts.<br/>Featuring Darcy Lewis, various pairings, and more AUs and crossovers than you can poke a stick at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 11th: Wintershock

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [write love on my skin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835587) by [amusewithaview](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview). 



> Featuring Darcy Lewis, Bucky Barnes, soulmarks and some shadily explained time travel. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE:not all of these fics are written according to the immensely talented Amusewithaview's soulmark AUs, but this one certainly is, and there will be more where this one came from.
> 
> I will be updating this series of fics every Monday and Friday :)

The number 11 is a good number for Darcy Lewis,

She had her first kiss on the 11th. She got her first pet on her 11 birthday. She met Jane on the 11th. Shit, she even won five hundred bucks in a bingo game once, the clincher being – you guessed it- the number 11.

Eleven is her number. Her _lucky_ number.

This benevolence for the prime number is in no small part thanks to the elegant, ruby red writing that wraps itself around her right wrist like an intimate bracelet, its secret zealously guarded. Even so, it’s no secret to those she’s closest to that she has a tendency to up her eyeliner game and actually curl or straighten her hair properly on the 11th of every month.

She’s one of the fortunate ones, after all. Darcy Lewis is one of the lucky few with at least _some_ semblance of an idea of when she’ll meet ‘the one’. So forgive her if she’s maybe a little more invested in her appearance. She doesn’t want to disappoint.

The day Jane’s doodad machine malfunctions is not the 11th. It’s not even 11am.

Go figure.

\--

Darcy remember an intense heat and an insistent and obnoxious beeping noise. She remembers the familiar feeling of tools in her hands as she tries to fix a machine she has only a shaky understanding of. Most of all, she remembers the agony of being torn apart and put back together again and again and _again._ She tries to scream, but there’s not enough air in her lungs for even a whimper- she’s barely even sure if she _has_ lungs anymore.

It lasts an eternity. It lasts barely a second. Darcy knows nothing- _is_ nothing.

And then it all just

Stops.

She’s _something_ , she’s Darcy. She’s thrown to the ground with a _thump_ that rattles in her chest. Aches in her throat. She gasps. Groans. Smells pine needles and wet earth. Tastes wood-smoke and the remnants of coffee. Hears confused and startled shouts.

“ _Fuck me_.” She gasps, throwing what she hopes is still her arm over her eyes. Everything hurts. She’s going to kill Jane when she gets back from wherever the _fuck_ she is. _If_ she works it out, which with Jane is a possible no, but she _will_ have the help of Tony and Bruce and possibly Heimdall.

Darcy hopes.

“Miss? Miss, are you alright?” a man asks. He sounds familiar. She lets her arm flop to the ground. Looks familiar too.

“… Steve?” she breathes. The man’s eyes widen and he flinches. She wishes she was still wearing her glasses. His shape grows indistinct, “What’re-” she tries again, words too slurred for _her_ to even understand. “Wht’re y’dwan ere-” the slurring fails to stop. Darcy makes a soft noise of frustration, and a warm hand touches hers, but the face that grows closer grows no clearer. Stupid glasses.

Vaguely she remembers, as the black rises around her, that she’d been wearing her contacts today.

\--

Darcy wakes with a start, with a splitting headache and handcuffed to a canvas cot to boot. She knows this because she almost strangles herself with the arm stretched across her chest and neck when she tries to sit up.

“Jesus _fuck_!” she hisses at the pitched roof of her makeshift prison, flopping back down onto the stretcher, pride smarting more than anything, “Jane, I swear to Thor, if you manage to fix whatever clusterfuck your machine has gotten me into, I will wring your skinny fucking neck. And I do not care what you actual god golden retriever of a boyfriend looks like, so help me I will leave you for dead in your lab, surrounded by the carnage of your _stupid_ fucking machines. _Just give the interpolator a whack, Darcy. Just fix it with some duck-tape, Darcy. It’s fine, Darcy. I do it all the time, d-_ ”

Somewhere to her left, a man coughs.

Darcy’s incensed mutterings cut off abruptly, blood rising to her cheeks. She turns, and just _knows_ the blush is growing more pronounced.

A young man is staring at her, trying hard not to grin at her in amusement.

_Idiot_ , Darcy berates herself. Should have checked out the tent first, before launching into an angry rant.

She studies him- around her age, with the kind of handsome face that would have had her mother swooning over. His dark hair looks as though it may have passed as neat two days ago, and the three day old growth on his face tells the same story, but his eyes are bright and intelligent, sparking with ill-hidden amusement. He looks familiar, she thinks, but she can’t quite pin down who he reminds her of. But what’s most striking is the well-worn military uniform he wears, circa WWII.

Darcy blows out heavily through her nose, “Well fuck,” she says, brain-to-mouth filter once again failing her spectacularly, “please tell me I’ve just stumbled into an impromptu LARPing event in Central Park. What’s the date, Mister Handsome Army Dude?”

The amusement slips off his face. His gaze turns intense. Assessing.

Darcy winces, “You have no idea what LARPing is, do you?”

The man gives her a flat stare. Darcy sighs heavily in resignation and scrubs her face with her free hand, “I am so, so screwed, aren’t I? Go on then, let’s rip off the proverbial Band-Aid; what’s the date?”

“Well,” Handsome Mister Army Dude says eventually, “it’s currently the eleventh, but with the way you’re running your mouth, it’ll be the twelth in no time. But somethin’ tells me that’s not quite what you’re askin’.”

Darcy stares. She’s fairly sure her mouth has fallen open.

“I- but- you’re-”

“Yeah.” He looks like he wants to smile, but can’t quite bring himself to do it, “But forgive me if I’m not jumpin’ for joy.”

Darcy flinches, but if her suspicions are correct, then she is fucked up the wazoo, and meeting her soulmate is _not_ going to end happily.

“See,” her _soulmate_ carries on, curling forwards to rest his forearms on his knees. It would be sinister, but the glint in his eyes is all wrong. He looks angry, “I’ve been blank for a long time. And then the _funniest thing_ happened about three hours ago. Right around the time you fell outta the sky.

“Can you guess what it was?”

Darcy swallows back the rising distress, “Your soulmark turned up.”

The man nod and leans back in his chair, “My soulmark turned up. Outta the blue. And ya know, just as the burnin’ feeling starts up, here you come, fallin’ out of the sky and almost squashin’ Dernier. But I figure, sure. Could just be a coincidence, that. Though it’s mighty fuckin’ weird you just turning up like that, _and_ you seemed to know Steve ta boot- even though he swears black and blue he’s never met you in his life, and I’m inclined to believe him there, ‘cause you seem pretty damn hard to f-”

“Steve’s here?” Darcy interrupts, finally catching up to what he’s saying, “Steve Rogers? I didn’t just hallucinate him?”

His eyes narrow, anger and suspicion warring in his gaze, “See now, that’s exactly the kind of ‘coincidence’ that I’m disinclined to trust. ‘Cause doll, this thing right here?” he motions between the two of them, “This seems right up Hydra’s alley.”

Darcy’s eyes widen, “Hydra-” Steve, Dernier… “Holy shit, you’re Bucky Barnes.”

Barnes’ eyes shutter and he stands. Prowls towards her until he’s positively looming. Darcy refuses to shrink back, “You shouldn’t know my name, doll. If you think knowing my name is meant to charm me, then you got another thing fucking coming.”

But Darcy says nothing, because she’s remembered exactly how this story ends. She wants to cry, because this is just too c _ruel._

Because James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes, best friend of Steve, member of the Howling Commandos, the most infamous commando units of the second world war, doesn’t make it through this war. Sergeant Barnes is listed as killed in action in 1945, falling from a moving train somewhere in the Swiss Alps. His body is never recovered.

Darcy starts to cry. She can’t help it. The thought of never even having a chance to know her soulmate strikes her right to the core; she didn’t think she’d be one of _those_ , the ones who lost their mates before it had even begun. More fool her.

Barnes looks startled at the sudden emergence of tears, but he schools himself quickly, “Look,” he says, “whatever Hydra threatened you with, we can protect you from. You don’t gotta pretend you’re my soulmate-” Darcy flinches and he breaks off. She shakes her head vehemently. She takes a moment to compose herself.

“That’s not why I’m c-crying.” She sighs, and reaches down to pull up the sleeve of her sweater. Barnes watches her warily, eyeing the way she works around the cuff on her wrist as she pulls away the bandage wrapped around it.

He sucks in a sharp breath. Looks from her wrist to her face and back again. She knows it’s not all visible, but there must be enough for him to recognise his own handwriting. His words.

“Hydra couldn’t manage _that_. Those’re my words- my first words to you. No way they could have predicted that.”

“ _No_.” Darcy says firmly. She tugs at the handcuff bitterly, “this is _wrong_. This is so, _so wrong_. You’re meant to be from _my_ time.”

His eyes spark, “What are you sayin?”

Darcy opens her mouth, but any possible way she could phrase it sounds ridiculous, “This isn’t my time.”

He frowns in confusion and is silent for a long moment, mulling over her answer, “You sayin’ you’re a… time traveller?”

She nods shakily, “I can’t prove it,” she says softly. It’s true; there’s no way she can definitively prove to Barnes, or Carter or the rest of the Howling Commandos that she’s from 2013. Her phone (if it even survived the displacement) could be passed off as advanced enemy technology, and any future events she could predict were impossible to prove until the day they’d actually happened. If they’ve ever happen, now that she was here.

The man known as James Buchanan Barnes sighs, “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.” He pulls out his pistol. Keeps it aimed at her as he kneels on the ground in front of her, “Don’t go giving me trouble, sweetheart.”

She nods slowly and he unlocks the cuff connected to the cot and motions with his weapon to her other hand. She doesn’t flinch when he snaps it back into place over her free wrist. His touch is gentle, but impersonal, as though trying desperately to remain professional.

Darcy can give him that.

Given half the chance, Darcy would give him a lot of things.

“Where are we going?” she says instead. Barnes hums softly and rests a hand on her shoulder as she stands.

“To people who can actually decide if this is above my pay grade or not.”

“Stark and Carter?” she won’t lie; she’s hopeful. Bucky squeezes her shoulder a little more insistently.

“You need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

He gives her a funny look, “Sayin’ things like you know everything about us. S’queer.”

“Sorry.”

Darcy knows she must look a right sight; dirty, handcuffed and tearstained, being led by one Sergeant Barnes at gunpoint out of one tent and through the small camp set up. They garner more than a few looks, and Darcy is exceedingly conscious of her brightly coloured tights and oversized sweater, the cuffs rolled to the elbow, her soulmark more than present in its crimson red.

Like blood.

The man she’ll one day know as Steve meets them at the door to the largest tent in the camp. His eyes slip down from her still wet face and red eyes to the mark above the handcuffs. He frowns. Darcy remembers that only those who had met their soulmate ever dared to leave it uncovered in 1945.

“Buck-” he says warningly.

“-Not a word, Rogers.” Bucky snaps. Darcy tries to unfocus her gaze; she doesn’t know these men, “Not a fucking word.” Steve complies, but Darcy suspects it’s only because he doesn’t see any evidence of physical harm on her, “Is Stark in there?”

Steve nods slowly, eyes still glued to Darcy. Christ she must look like a fucking harlot to him, “With Agent Carter. She say anything?”

“Inside.” Barnes growls and he holsters his pistol. Darcy is grateful- the gun was making her antsy. He guides her inside, squeezing her shoulder as though he couldn’t remove his hand, though perhaps that was just wishful thinking on her part.

The insides of the tent are a queer mix of the military order she’s used to seeing in Steve’s apartments in the Tower, and an eclectic mess of machinery and paper notes scrawled with diagrams and numbers. A Stark undoubtedly lives here. Agent Peggy Carter straightens from a casual slouch at a table nearby upon their entrance. She makes an imposing silhouette, refined and austere in her uniform and Darcy feels like a downright slob in her presence.

“Stark?” Bucky barks, “You in here? I gotta conundrum for you to puzzle over.”

A man pops up from under a table. He bears such a striking resemblance to Tony it’s almost physically painful, “Barnes? Didn’t know you even knew big words like that.”

Darcy finds herself bristling almost against her will at the comment, but Bucky just brushes it off with an emotionless ‘fuck off, Stark’. He nudges her forwards, touch finally leaving, “Darcy here says she’s a time traveller.”

That familiar Stark focus zeroes onto her, “Is that so?”

“S’what she’s claiming.”

Howard Stark doesn’t acknowledge him, their presence all but forgotten, “What time are you from, Darcy?”

Darcy bites her lip. Telling them wouldn’t hurt, she supposes, “March 29th, 2013.”

There is a sharp inhalation from the three men. Agent Carter stands unaffected.

“2013?” Steve echoes in disbelief.

“Bull. Shit.” Bucky says flatly.

“Astounding.” Stark Snr breathes.

Darcy swallows nervously. Her soulmark _itches_. “I don’t-” she starts haltingly, before Stark can barrage her with the questions she can just _see_ sitting on the tip of his tongue, “I don’t know how I got here. I was just fixing a machine for Jane- my boss- and then _poof_ , here I am in 1945.”

Barnes has the good fortune enough to not mention that he never ended up telling her the year. Darcy knows her history well enough.

“Mm,” Stark says, “there’s so many questions to ask- so much to _learn._ I suppose the question we’d all like an answer to should go first. Do we win the war?”

Darcy thinks of Dresden. Thinks of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the Cold War that dominated the latter half of the twentieth century. She thinks of her grandparents, survivors of the Holocaust, the both of them. And she thinks very, very carefully about the butterfly effect.

Darcy says nothing.

Stark huffs crossly, “Well come on, girl; do we?”

She remains mute.

He sighs heavily, “Okay then. Loaded question, I suppose. How about an easier question; is this our last war?”

Darcy closes her eyes. She _will not speak_. Steve and Barnes remain silent on either side of her. Darcy thinks of the funny looks Steve had sent her way the first few weeks after they’d met (and of his double take, that first time. She’d almost thought she might have been his soulmate, the way he’d reacted), and thinks she understands now.

Stark Snr continues to question her, growing more and more agitated with each mute answer she gives. She can almost feel Bucky growing angrier in response, and her heart aches at the thought of losing him.

Even so, it’s a relief when the shining portal appears right in front of her.

“Oh, thank _God._ ” She breathes amidst the shouting that erupts around her. She turns to take one last look at her soulmate.

“I’m sorry.” She says to his slackjawed, shocked face. And then she steps forward before they can catch her and the light swallows her whole once again.

 

 

When she lands safe, back in her time, Steve holds her hand as she sobs into his chest for long, _long_ hours.


	2. Lost at the Creek: Darcy/Sam Wilson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmarks AU, Darcy Lewis/Sam Wilson pairing.  
> Something short and sweet to get you through the weekend.

“Fuck,” Darcy says softly.

She is indisputably lost.

She puts the car into Park. Pulls out her dog-eared map book and studies the faded street names. It may have been in her best interests after all, she muses, to have bought herself a more current book. The street she thinks she’s on isn’t even on the map; only an expanse of pastel green that she can draw no meaning from, other than ‘forest lives here’. Maybe she should have forked out the money for a gps, come to think of it.

“Fuck,” she says again, louder and in the general direction of the dead end she’s parked before, and the trees behind it. The sign reading _Chester Creek_ taunts her silently.

Darcy sighs. She’s already tried retracing her path- that was how she ended up here in the first place. All the streets- built sometime between 2001 and now- are narrow and far windier than they have a right to be, the houses identical but for the occasional palm tree and splash of different coloured rendered walls. Even the spotless range rover spinoffs are the same.

There’s no _Chester Creek_ on her map.

“Fucking Jane,” she growls. It’s not her fault of course, but that won’t stop her from blaming her within the sanctity of the van. Though it _was_ Jane who had insisted on sending Darcy out to pick up that doohickie, so in that sense it _was_ her fault she was stuck here in the middle of butt-fuck suburbia with no clue of where she is. _And_ her employer’s directions had been less than stellar.

“ ‘ _Take the van_ ,’ she said. ‘ _It’s easy to get to_ ,’ she said. Fucking bull. Shit.”

She groans heartily, flopping back into her seat and resting the map book over her face. This is not how she would have liked her morning to turn out.

A light knock on the window a little while later startled her from her sulk. She yelps and the book lands heavily on her lap, “Fuck- _shit!_ ” she yelps when it’s spine hits her hip awkwardly.

An amused man watchers her from the other side of the window, an eyebrow quirked on his handsome face. His warm brown eyes spark with ill-concealed mirth, “Are you okay, miss?”

His voice comes muffled through the glass, but Darcy freezes all the same. It’s not the first time the words have been directed her way, but they catch her unawares every time. She swallows nervously and rolls down the window. _Don’t say hi, don’t say hi,_ “I’m lost,” she breathes- _yes, nailed it_ , “and all of this is new, and everything looks the same and this book, I swear is a million and one years old. So uh… not really.”

Well. As first words go, it could be much worse (Darcy’s best friend Kai has the word ‘hey’ branded across the thin skin of his hip bone).

The man’s eyes widen, lips parting in surprise. Darcy gets the sudden impression that she has just hit the jackpot. She smiles at him, tentative, “Were they-?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Holy crap.” He’s still staring at her, the expression on his face a mix between awe and shock. She flushes under the attention.

“I- ah… I’m Darcy.”

“Sam.”

Bless his soul, but he doesn’t look like he’s capable of much more than single syllables at the moment.  Honestly it’s all a little ridiculous, really. She’s not exactly in prime condition today- soulmate or no, she’s not entirely sure she merits this level of attention.

Even so, she takes pity on him- he doesn’t seem to be saying anything more anytime soon, “I don’t really know what to do from here,” she tells him honestly. “Do we exchange numbers? Show each other our marks? Pledge allegiance to the Dark Lord?”

Sam laughs, a bright and earnest thing that settles like rightness in her gut. She admires the way his eyes crinkle with mirth. His is a lived in face. “Maybe no Dark Lord, but… numbers? And I could take you out for breakfast? Or Lunch?”

Darcy nods enthusiastically, fumbling with the clasp on her purse to get at her phone as quickly as possible. Screw Jane- her doohickie can wait. This is rapidly turning out to be a less-than-shit day.

Suddenly, Sam laughs again. It sounds a little hysterical. She looks up at him sharply, “What?” she bristles. Sam shakes a hand at her, turning away slightly so he’s not laughing into her face.

“I- _haha_ \- sorry. It’s just my Ma- oh Chirst, is she gonna have herself some kittens! I _knew_ it was a good idea convincing her to move here. _Heehh_ \- but she’s always going on about how everything looked the same and the neighbours have the sum personality of a cumquat!”

Darcy raises a brow. Cumquats are pretty unusual, in her books. “Well I mean, if you wanted, you could introduce me to her now.” She flushes, realising what she’s just said. _Christ Darcy, smooth fucking move,_ “I mean,” she backpedals, “you could have proved how right you were. You don’t have to though…” she trails off. He’s not laughing anymore.

“Yeah?” Sam says slowly. It’s hard to tell, but if Darcy were a betting gal, she’d say there’s a hopeful cast to his face when he peers at her from under his brows, “You wanna meet my folks so soon, sweetheart?” Don’t you have other places to be?”

Darcy’s cheeks feels as though they’re burning, but she sends him his brightest smile and winks at him. Sam’s mouth opens slightly in surprise and Darcy positively preens.

“Sure,” she says, and throws the map book sitting in her lap into the back of her van, “it’s not like I’ve got better places to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow did a lot of you really like 'The 11th'! Kind of feel bad that there was only one part for you to read. But never fear! There will most certainly be a follow up for this fic! It won't be up for a week or so, but I may stick it up on tumblr first, just to sate your thirst. ^.^  
> Until next time!


	3. Horses Anticipating a Storm: Darcy/Sif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy/Sif  
> 1930s AU; Darcy lives on a farm in the Dust Bowl.

The horses are restless.

Darcy notes it with a familiar sense of dread; they only act like this when a storm is approaching. The kind that comes in the form of biting winds and endless swathes of _dust_. Darcy remembers when the rains were common. When grass and wheat grew for as far as the eye could see; an endless roll of emerald and topaz that rippled with the winds like the Earth was a living creature.

But that was an age ago. Back when she was a just a wee bairn clutching at her mother’s skirts- or at least, felt like it.

Now there is only the dust. Only the gnawing hunger in the pit of her stomach and the growing despair as each season brings less rain; only misplaced earth that etches its way into her soul. One day she’ll be as old and wrinkled and dirt-stained as the families that pass through town, with their wearied faces and meagre belongings.

Darcy sighs and wipes at the sweat that gathers on her brow. She’d best lead the horses in before the storm decides to turn for real. She eyes the sky warily- in the distance grey clouds gather at a rapid pace, brewing like-

She frowns.

Like _storm clouds_. Lord above, but it must be _years_ since she’s seen honest to God storm clouds. Did they always form so quickly? She doesn’t remember it being so, but the clouds to the east are growing and boiling in the sky at a speed she’s surely never seen before.

“What in the world?” she breathes as the first signs of lightning spears down to earth. The horses snort and stir uneasily at the crackle of thunder that ripples across the sky. More lightning follows it, and the air is filled with the violent growl of thunder. Darcy hurries to the gate, and almost misses the sudden beam of swirling, rainbow light that spouts from the sky, like something straight out of the Good Book. It’s beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Darcy wonders if it spells their doom or salvation.

The horses seem to think it’s the former, snorting and stomping in distress as a strange screaming sound that must be coming from the pillar reaches them. And God, but it’s so _close-_ perhaps only a few miles out to the east. She curses and hurries over.

“Whoa,” she croons at Jamie- a sturdy and towering workhorse that her mother scored for far below average. He snorts and shuffles, but it’s easy enough to lead him inside and away from the storm. She makes sure there feed and water in his stall before returning for Arabella.

When she turns to the east, the pillar of light is gone but the storm clouds remain. She wonders if they’ll bring life-giving rain, or simply leave nothing but dashed hopes.

Arabella is _her_ horse, and the pair of them go way back. More spirited and edge than Jamie, she nonetheless calms down enough for Darcy to slip a bit and bridle over and lead out of the fenced paddock. She tosses her head uneasily, but doesn’t buck. Darcy rubs her neck soothingly as they slip into the barn, glancing back at the strange clouds nervously. The air beneath them is darkening and turning hazy in a way that suggests rain, and something inside her _sings_.

They stop outside Arabella’s stall, and aged leather catches her eye. She stares at the old saddle, thoughts warring inside her as the horse- calm now that the unnatural light is over- waits patiently be her side. The horse nudges her gently though when it becomes clear they’re not moving. The hot breath against her shoulder breaks her contemplation.

“Why not?” she mutters, feeling oddly daring in the face of honest to God _rain._ She strides over to the familiar saddle and heaves it over to her waiting horse. Arabella snorts, “This is a fantastic idea, Arabella. Don’t you go judgin’ me.”

The horse doesn’t reply, but she does graciously stand still as she sets up the saddle. She feels the familiar burning of curiosity tightening in her chest as she tightens the straps and ensures the saddle is on properly. Her insatiable and unapologetic curiosity has gotten her into trouble more than once, but there’s something- something deep inside of her that’s screaming at her to check out the storm. The pillar of light had touched the land, and Darcy will be damned if she lets any other sucker find the pot of gold at the end of that rainbow.

Arabella is a familiar and steady weight between her legs when she pulls herself up, grateful for choosing to put on her father’s trousers today- mother’s disapproval be damned. Darcy urges her on at a steady canter as soon as they’re away from the farmstead. She keeps her eyes trained on where she thinks the pillar hit the ground- somewhere out on the Johnson’s abandoned property. They’d up and left twelve months ago; hadn’t even been able to sell the property- no surprise there.

She doesn’t meet anyone on the roads, and Darcy’s grateful for the solitude. It wouldn’t pay to have to explain to passers-by why she was travelling by herself with only the clouds and her horse for company. The clouds themselves loom above her, and the air is filled with a scent she’d not thought she’d ever again encounter- rain on hot dry earth. She breathes in deep, filling her lungs and trying to sear the scent into her memory. The glory of it all is enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she knows that even if she finds nothing on Johnson’s land, she’ll at least be grateful for the sensations it brought.

It starts to rain after she turns off the road, onto the dirt track that leads to the empty Johnson home. It starts off light- soft drops on her shirt and hair, but grows heavier with every passing moment. She laughs joyfully at the feeling of cool rain upon her face, not even caring that she’ll be soaked in a matter of minutes. It’s summer; she’s not about to catch a cold, so who gives a shit if she get soaked. Darcy certainly doesn’t.

She slows Arabella when they reach the emptied homestead. It’s half buried beneath black dust, windows cracked, glass like jagged teeth hiding a gaping maw. The sight of it makes something inside her ache; the farms ‘round here were once prosperous- the people happy. The 20s had been a hopeful time.

They give it a wide berth- the rain is falling steadily and she can only imagine the kind of mud they’d find there. It’s tricky going enough as it is- the ground sucks at Arabella’s hooves, and Darcy makes sure to guide them to where the earth is driest.

They pause at an open gate. It’s difficult to see through the rain, but she’s fairly sure the half-dead grove of trees just north are close to where the light struck. They move through the abandoned wheat fields slowly- the last thing Darcy wants is for Arabella to slip in the mud. As they draw closer, Darcy realises there’s something _moving_ out there. It’s difficult to make out through the rain, but she could swear she sees something silver glinting amongst the trees.

She frowns, lifting a hand to try and stop some of the rain getting into her eyes. The silvery thing moves again and Darcy begins to wish she’d brought a gun. The lands around here are bare and sparsely populated, but every now and then you hear tell of criminals wandering the land- low-life looters and rapists who’d take any opportunity to make pain where they can get it. She pulls Arabella into a halt, unwilling to go further without knowing what she’s going up against.

“Hello?” she hollers, hands cupped around her mouth. “Who’s there?” She waits with bated breath, ready to turn Arabella around and flee in a heartbeat.

The silver moves, and a lone figure emerges from the tree line. She squints through the rain- it seems to be easing, more’s the pity. The silver is from their clothes, she realises.

She sucks in a breath. No. Not clothes; armour.

_Who in God’s name would wear armour in the dust bowl?_

“Who goes there?” the reply comes, even as the figure moves closer. It’s a woman’s voice; low pitched, but of the wrong sound for a man’s. She finds herself relaxing at the thought, but forces herself to remain on guard; they’re approaching quickly, at a jog despite the mud.

“Hey now!” she calls out, gripping at Arabella’s reigns tighter. “That’s close enough!”

The woman abruptly stops- a hundred feet away by that point. She’s certainly wearing armour- or a breastplate and armbraces, at least. She wear trousers, like Darcy, though hers are far tighter, bordering on the obscene. Her boots reach her knees- the metal on their fronts spattered with mud and filth. She carries what Darcy suspects is a sword, strapped to her back. The hood that emerges from beneath her breastplate hides her face.

She cuts an intimidating figure.

“Who are you?” she demands, loud enough for her voice to travel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The woman shifts, and her hands rise to tug her hood down. Darcy sucks in a sharp breath at the sharp angles of her face and her pale skin- even from here, she looks perfect, to the point of it being unnatural- _inhuman_.

“An angel,” she breathes, barely even realising she’s saying it out loud. But it’s true; there’s something off about her. Something archaic and divine- like one of the fierce creatures from the bible, falling down from the heavens to bring joy and pain alike. And she has fallen from the sky- she’s certain of it. No light like that which came from the heavens could bring anything less.

“I am Lady Sif,” the angel calls out, “of Asgard.”

Darcy frowns, “I ain’t never heard of no Asgard.”

“That is no surprise; it is far from here,” the Angel says. She makes an abortive move, as if to step forwards. “May I come closer?”

Darcy doesn’t need to think that much about it. “You may.”

She moves towards her again. Darcy stays on her horse- the Lady Sif is tall, she notices, and swift too. She’d rather keep the upper hand here, if something does choose to go wrong; angel or not.

And honestly Darcy is leaning towards the angel theory more and more as the other woman draws closer. She’s stunning; muddy armour and all and her features are youthful and ageless all at once, eyes like chips of ice in her alien face- sharp and cold and _ancient_. She stops some ten feet away, scrutinising Darcy with her too-old eyes. She wonders if she disappoints.

“And who are _you_ , my fair lady?”

Darcy gapes. She’d laugh were she not so surprised. Fair she is not- in any form of the word- soaked as she is to the bone, hair a mess and her skin grimy even after all the rain.

“Darcy,” she manages eventually, choosing to keep her last name to herself for now. “What are you doing here?”

Lady Sif smiles at her, and the chill in her eyes washes away, turning into something almost sheepish. “Is it so obvious I do not belong here?”

Darcy _does_ laugh at that. “Obvious is _not_ the word I’d use.”

She bows her head slightly in agreeance. Darcy shifts in her saddle and Arabella’s ears twitch. “You came from the sky, didn’t you?”

Lady Sif stares at her, the smile shrinking slightly as she studies her. A hand clenches. “I did.”

“Why?”

“I come seeking a criminal,” she admits, mouth tightening around the edges unhappily.

“What, out here?” Darcy blurts out before she can stop herself, “In the Dust Bowl?”

“Your Dust Bowl is not exempt from criminals, Lady Darcy.”

“Well, no.” She frowns, “But I don’t imagine we collect the calibre of criminal that _you’re_ looking for.”

She looks up at Darcy from beneath her lashes, and something in her chest fumbles for a moment, “And what kind of criminals _does_ the Dust Bowl collect?”

“Oh you know,” she finds herself saying, “the usual low lives; looters, rapists. Con-men. The occasional murderer. But- but nothing that you’d need a _sword_ for.” She points to the handle poking up from her back, “Most problems here are solved with guns.”

Lady Sif smirks at her and rests a hand upon the leather-wrapped handle, “This is no normal sword.”

“Well I guessed that. But it means you’re looking for no normal crook. Are you?”

“Indeed. I seek an enchantress, skilled in the arts of magic and seduction.”

Darcy’s silent for a long moment, dwelling upon her answer. It is possible of course that this ‘Sif’ is just a madwoman with access to armour and a sword, but it doesn’t explain how she got here, or the strange lightshow, or the odd inflection to her voice. And she did admit she came from the sky.

“An… enchantress, you say?”

“Aye. She seeks Midgard to make her own. Those who oppose her shall be torn apart or added to her ranks as thralls.”

Darcy frowns at the answer; there are parts she doesn’t quite understand, but she can get the gist of it easily enough. “What makes you think you can take her then?”

“I have succeeded against her before. Her charms have no effect against me.”

Darcy snorts. “Is it a man thing then?”

Sif huffs a laugh through her nose. “It is.”

She rolls her eyes. “Typical. Pretty, is she?”

“Beyond compare,” Sif agrees, but there’s something dark in her eyes that Darcy can’t read. The little stumbling thing inside her chest shudders again. She swallows and glances away.

“I- uh. I guess I should let you go then. Before she goes wreaking too much havoc.”

Sif bows her head. Her expression is opaque- unreadable. “It has been an honour, Lady Darcy. I pray we meet again someday.”

She licks at suddenly dry lips. The rain stopped some time ago. “Uh- the same to you, Lady Sif. All the best- please save us from certain doom.”

The woman gives her a soft smile. “I shall try my hardest,” she says, and turns to leave. Darcy watches her go, long legs passing through the mud at a surprising speed. Something tugs inside her- the same thing that had convinced her to leave the farmstead in the first place. She glances down at Arabella, but her gaze returns quickly to Sif’s retreating figure. Seeing the back of her feels so wrong it almost hurts.

“Damn it all,” she grits out. “ _Wait!_ ”

Sif stops. Darcy curses again and kicks Arabella into a steady trot **,** whilst the Angel/woman waits patiently for her. She curses her impetuousness, but can’t stop herself all the same.

“My Lady Darcy?”

“I don’t- I don’t s’pose you need a guide? The Dust Bowl can be a difficult place to navigate- the storms- they can come on you in the blink of an eye. You get caught in one of them without a proper mask and you’re as good as dead. And you stand out too much. I can help.”

Sif stares at her, gaze deliberative and solemn. “It is a dangerous path that I seek.”

Darcy shakes her head and slides down from Arabella. On the ground, Sif is at least half a head taller than her, and she’s fully aware of how desperate she must be coming across. She can’t find it in herself to care, though some part of her is screaming at her ludicrous suggestion. “So what? I’ll die out here at thirty-two anyway. I can shoot a gun as good as any of the men ‘round here. And besides- one woman alone out here is suspicious. Two is just a pair of sisters travelling the road. I can help you, I swear.

“Please. Take me with you.”

Lady Sif extends her hands- takes Darcy’s in hers. Her fingerless gloves are soft and supple, the tips of her fingers points of searing heat on the backs of Darcy’s hands. She stares down into her eyes for what feels like an eternity, as though searching through her soul for something to be called _worthy._

“I do not know how long this hunt may take. It could be months. Perhaps years.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t care,” is all she says. Sif’s hands tighten on her own.

And then she smiles; bright enough to nearly knock Darcy to the ground.

“My Lady Darcy,” she says lowly, “it would be an honour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my non-existent horse knowledge. I've probably ridden one three or four times in my life.  
> And good news to everyone who wanted a continuation of The 11th; part two will be going up on Friday :D


	4. How Far Can You Carry This? (The 11th Cont.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not so long awaited (unless you read it first on Tumblr) sequel to The 11th.  
> Darcy 'copes' with her new soulmark status and Natasha is a good friend.  
> Darcy Lewis/Bucky Barnes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bewarb: Mentions of heavy alcohol drinking, mentions of death and feels

After she’s been checked out by Bruce, and Jane has apologised to her enough to make her ears bleed and she’s cried into Steve’s shoulder for what must have been an _eternity_ , Darcy retreats to her apartment, sets her security to ‘do not disturb’ mode and settles down to stay in there as long as she possibly can.

She has some re-evaluations to do.

Her trip is a revelation, and not the pleasant kind. Losing her soulmate had simply never been an option. And sure, Darcy was always plenty ready for them to be platonic (it happened to plenty of people, after all), but to lose them entirely within the space of a few hours never even occurred to her.

And yet, here she is, with words still the colour of blood wrapped around her wrist like a _curse_ , stuck in the twenty-first century with a soulmate who’s been dead seventy years.

She swallows thickly at the thought, stumbling through her apartment with legs that feel like lead. Darcy’s not even sure if there’s enough energy left in her to cry. She’s been gone for a week and a half, but the place seems to be untouched. The x-files dvd case is still open in front of the tv, and there are magazines strewn across the coffee table- one still open on some trashy theory about Steve and Tony’s ‘forbidden love’ ( _ha_ ). She’d planned on showing it to Steve whilst he was drinking coffee.

“Fuck this,” Darcy mutters to her silent apartment. She pulls out all the alcohol she has- bourbon, vodka and a quarter bottle of spiced rum- and settles down on the kitchen floor for a long night of drinking herself into an incoherent stupor.

Natasha finds her late into the night, down a bottle of rum and a glass into her bourbon. She appears from nowhere, standing at the edge of her kitchen like a spectre.

“Go away,” she tells the woman. Her tumbler feels like ice in her trembling hands. Natasha shakes her head. The light of the digital clock on her microwave casts her face into dark shadows. Darcy can just make out the dust on her arms and shoulders.

“You’ll give yourself alcohol poisoning,” she says softly. Darcy laughs at her bitterly, and takes a pointed sip of bourbon. It tastes like nail polish remover.

“Good.” She grimaces. Natasha remains impassive, but she sits beside her on the cool tiles and helps herself to a generous drink straight from her unopened bottle of vodka. The face she pulls makes Darcy laugh again.

“That tastes like shit.”

“Only the best,” she mutters into her tumbler. Natasha takes another swig.

“You scared me, птичка,” she confesses quietly. “Foster didn’t know if she could ever bring you back to us. But Steve knew where to find you.”

Darcy stares up at the ceiling. She wonders what Jarvis thinks of all this. Human drama. “I met him, when I… landed in 1945. He didn’t know who I was.” She takes another gulp and it burns all the way down.

“He told me.”

“I met Howard Stark, too.” She huffs a frustrated laugh, “He was just as much an asshole as Tony said he was. Kept on asking me about ‘the future’.”

Natasha snorts and crosses her legs. “I am grateful to have you back, Darcy.”

Her eyes burn, and Darcy keeps her gaze pointed upwards to stave off the oncoming tears, “Yeah,” she says thickly, “I’m glad to be back too.”

Natasha doesn’t comment on her obvious lie- only takes another drink of vodka as Darcy wrestles with her boiling emotions. She doesn’t want to cry again- doesn’t want to turn into a blubbering mess in front of Natasha- a woman she’s certain would never let emotions hijack her like that. And she’s cried too much today. Darcy doesn’t know what she’d do if she broke down for the third time in twenty-four hours.

“How did you get in here?” she asks eventually, once she’s certain she won’t burst into tears. “I told Jarvis I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Natasha gives her the side-eye. “So you could drink yourself to death?” she snorts. “I don’t think so.”

Darcy scowls at her. “I’m not suicidal.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Darcy looks away, unable to hold her unwavering gaze. “But you’re not okay. Something evidently happened for you to be like this. More than Steve remembers.”

She bites her lip but doesn’t answer her unspoken question. Lets it hang in the air awkwardly, untouched and unmentioned. Natasha sighs and runs her thumb around the rim of her bottle. “I used the air vents.”

Darcy lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “I thought those were Barton’s domain.”

Natasha smirks at her. “And who do you think he learnt that trick from?”

She huffs a laugh and rolls her head over to stark at the glowing numbers on the microwave. 02:21. She’s not quite sure when she started drinking, but it was probably several hours ago by now.

“Natasha?”

“Yes, птичка?”

“Do- do you have a soulmate?” Natasha turns to stare at her, expression unreadable. Darcy stares down at her empty glass, feeling ashamed of even asking. It is not her place.

“Yes,” Natasha says into the silence of the kitchen. She drinks deeply from the bottle, showing no sign of discomfort at the burn of alcohol. Darcy pours herself another glass of bourbon, but doesn’t drink.

“Are they…?”

“No,” the other woman says shortly. Darcy watches her throat move as she swallows, and feels even worse for asking.

“I’m sorry,” she burbles, tears threatening to fall all over again. She sniffles and hides her face in her hands. ‘God, I- I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m sorry- I- fuck. _Fuck._ I’m a mess.”

A pause. Natasha sighs heavily and wraps an arms around her shoulders and pulls her in. Darcy shudders at the contact and clutches at her jacket tightly. “They died a long time ago, птичка,” she murmurs, voice drawn tight with pain. “When I was a little girl. The Red Room took only blanks and those with dead marks. And I… I never met them. You cannot be hurt by that which you do not know.”

“Does that lie help you sleep at night?”

The other woman swallows audibly. “Sometimes.”

Darcy sobs. Natasha croons to her softly and runs a hand through her hair. “I- I met mine. In- in 1945.”

Natasha’s hand stills for only the briefest of moments before starting up again. “I thought as much,” she admits softly. “The way you touched your wrist…”

Darcy holds back the wail of grief pushing at her teeth. She shouldn’t be this distressed- she never even _knew_ the man, but the pain of losing her soulmate before even holding an amicable conversation together hurts like a stab in the gut.

“Who?”

 She draws in a deep breath. She smells faintly of alcohol and sandalwood. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

The other woman goes very still, hand halting once again on its path through her hair. “Does Steve know?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know- I don’t think so. Not unless Bucky-” she breaks off. Licks her lips. “Bucky- he said he’d been a blank all his life, until… until-”

“Until you appeared.”

She nods against the warm skin of Natasha’s neck. The woman hugs her just a little tighter. Darcy feels nauseous, but can’t bring herself to pull away. “He thought I was Hydra, at first.”

“I’m sorry, птичка.”

She sniffs. “They’re still red,” she croaks. And that’s the worst of it- she can’t even have the closure of faded words on her skin, so she can move on.

Natasha pushes her back in surprise. “What?”

Darcy lifts up her wrist. In the dark of the kitchen, the writing (neat cursive. Darcy had always loved that writing) looks almost black. “They haven’t faded.”

Natasha frowns at her words. For the first time that Darcy can remember, she looks unnerved. “They’ve always been red?”

She nods. Breathes out shakily. “Always. I used to match my nail polish to them.”

And _that’s_ something she’ll never do again. She may have to destroy her whole collection, if it comes to it.

Natasha’s lips twitch. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Anyone could have noticed my mark when I came back.”

“But no one knows he was your soulmate?”

She shakes her head. Laughs softly at the injustice of it all. “Trust me to get a broken soulmark. You know, I used to think myself one of the _lucky_ ones.” She swallows thickly, suddenly realising how childish she sounds; Natasha never even got to _meet_ her soulmate.

Natasha takes her face in her hands and runs away the tears on her face. She looks thoughtful, as though she never noticed Darcy’s thoughtless remark. “I’ve never heard of anyone’s marks staying in full colour after death.” Darcy flinches at the d-word and Natasha smiles at her in sympathy. “Soulmarks are not the be all and end all of love,” she reminds her gently.

“I know,” Darcy whispers. She pulls away; takes another good drink from her glass. The nausea grows stronger- she’ll have to stop soon. Darcy can’t find it in herself to care. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“No,” she agrees. She sounds immeasurably sad. “It doesn’t.”

Natasha gets up, pulling two glasses from the shelf and filling them with water. She hands one to Darcy and she takes a long drink. After straight bourbon, it tastes sweet and cool.

“You should tell Steve,” the redhead says quietly. “This isn’t a burden either of you should carry alone.”

Darcy hums and keeps her stare fixed on the lights of Manhattan she can see out the windows at the end of her room. Natasha replaces the glass she’s drained with another.

“You will find happiness again, Darcy.”

She bites her lip. The pain is only a dull ache beneath the drunken numbness. “I wanted happiness with _him_. I wanted my _soulmate_.”

Her voice cracks at the end.

“The world is cruel,” and there’s that distant pain in her voice again. The sound of it makes Darcy’s heart _ache_. She takes a hold of Natasha with an uncoordinated hand and thinks of a little red-headed girl, watching in horror as her soulmark leaches of colour, fading away to nothing more than an old scar upon her skin.

She doesn’t know which of their fates are worse.

She coughs, and rubs her sternum. “I should probably sleep.”

“You should,” Natasha hums, and squeezes back before letting go and standing again. She offers Darcy her hand and she lets the other woman pull her up- stumbles into her arms. Her head spins sickeningly at the change in altitude, nausea growing worse.

“I think I’m going to die,” she moans into her chest. Natasha clicks her tongue in dissatisfaction.

“You won’t die,” she says unsympathetically. “Though I’m impressed by your tolerance.”

“Yeah,” she slurs, “I’m a regular fucking Tony Stark.” Natasha laughs. They’re moving, Darcy notices absently, her feet guided along of their own accord.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Natasha scoffs, “You’re far better than Stark.”

She laughs bitterly, mind wandering back to Stark Snr, interrogating her as she stood between Steve and her soulmate, like sentinels to guard her from harm. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Darcy.” Natasha sits her down on her bed. It’s exactly as she left it- covers thrown back, half her pillows on the floor. It feels like an age ago since she last touched these sheets, but for her it’s barely even been twelve hours. Darcy feels older and far wearier.

“Darcy, look at me.”

She complies with the quiet order half-heartedly. Natasha’s eyes are sharp enough to cut, if she were to wish it. She rests a cool palm on Darcy’s cheek. “You are not alone. It’s not healthy to carry a grief like this on your own.” The corner of her lip twitches. “And remember- you’re young. You will find your happiness.”

“Did you find yours?”

Her eyes widen a fraction- as good as a flinch- and she stays quiet for a long and weighted moment. The tension in the air is so thick it’s a struggle for her to breathe, but in her drunkenness, Darcy refuses to withdraw her question.

“Yes,” she confesses eventually, “I have.”

Darcy wipes at her eyes, sniffling unattractively. She believes her. “Thank-you,” she whispers, as the redhead pushes her back down onto her bed. Natasha offers her a soft smile.

“There is nothing to thank me for, птичка.”

Darcy bites her lip. “Stay? I don’t… I don’t want to…” she can’t bring herself to finish, but Natasha understands her all the same. She slides into the bed, propping herself up against the headboard. Darcy wraps an arm around her leg, and one of Natasha’s hands fall back onto her head.

“Sleep,” she says.

“Thank-you,” Darcy replies. They both fall silent, and Darcy focusses on the faint sound of Natasha’s breathing and the gentle pressure of slender fingers carding through her hair.

The feeling in her heart when she falls asleep is something very close to peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is quite possibly one of my favourite characters to write :3  
> Птичка – Little Bird/Birdie. Apparently. Anyone who does speak/read Russian is free to correct me, though.


	5. Forgetting Why it Matters (The 11th P3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part three of The 11th Storyline  
> Darcy and Steve have a conversation. Post CA:TWS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING WARNING. THERE ARE MENTIONS OF SELF HARM IN THIS CHAPTER! BE CAREFUL!

Shield’s dark side rears its ugly head, and Darcy watches the Helicarriers fall from the sky with her heart in her mouth and dark and vicious fear churning in her gut.

She doesn’t know if Steve and Natasha are alive or dead. Doesn’t know if she’s going to have to bury two of her closest friends- if she lives through any of this at all. Hydra is just a fairytale now. The secret big bads of WWII, that Captain America and his band of merry men fought and destroyed.

But Shield… Hydra all along?

The thought _terrifies_ her.

For a moment at least.

And then the data comes pouring in- Natasha bringing all of Shield’s dirty laundry out for everyone to see.

And then Darcy gets really, really angry.

\-----

She gets the call in the dead of the night.

Had Darcy been sleeping, she’s certain she would have missed it, but- what with Steve being labelled a traitor and then Shield falling and his body being recovered from the shore of the Potomac- Darcy is understandably skittish. She doesn’t think she _could_ sleep, even if she tried. As it stands, Jane’s only managed to get her to eat something substantial after they’d heard Steve was alive. In hospital, but alive.

She’d forced herself to focus on the obscene amount of data Jarvis had managed to retrieve from the Shield dump. There’s _so much_ ; Darcy barely knows where to start, and the files she does read leave her too nauseous to try stomaching anything else.

She starts on people of interest index- and almost throws up when she finds her and Jane on it- and that leads to an almost endless list of people under Shield-instituted witness protection. She categorises them as best she can, and Jarvis promises to pass the information onto the relevant people. By this point of the night, all she can hope for is that it’s enough for now.

The shrill ringing of her phone has her fumbling- it slides across the work bench and falls onto the floor (thank the lord for Stark-improved phones). She barely catches it before it runs out.

“Hello?” she says cautiously, and puts the call on speakerphone; her cell lists the number only as private, and post Hydra, she’d rather be safe than sorry.

A heavy breath on the other side of the line. “ _Darcy_.”

She straightens. “ _Steve_?” she sighs in relief. “Oh, _thank_ _Thor_ \- are you okay?”

He laughs shakily. It sounds pained. “ _Well, I’m still breathing_ ,” he murmurs. He laughs again, “ _And… I met him- I found my soulmate. So… all things considered, I’m better than I could be._ ”

Darcy sucks in a sharp breath of surprise. Steve had been blank before the ice, much like… like his friend. She knows how much this means to him. How waking with words he thought he’d never see felt an awful lot like a second chance. One that he didn’t want to accept for a long time. “For real?”

“ _For real. Sam- you’ll like him. He’s… he’s really something else._ ”

And bless him, but he sounds halfway to smitten already.

She lets out a joyous squeal and ignores the sharp pang of jealousy in her gut, “Oh Steve, that’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you- I can’t wait to meet him.”

He huffs, sounding happy and strained all at once. “ _Yeah. He’s coming back with me to the Tower._ ”

Darcy frowns. The move is kind of quick, even for Steve ‘impulsive-is-my-middle-name’ Rogers. Her eyes widen at a thought- there’d been a new face on the scene of the Triskelion. Some guy with mechanical wings. “Oh my God. It’s the guy with the wings, isn’t it? You bagged yourself a superhero, didn’t you?”

An extended pause.

“ _Sometimes, Darcy, your ability to put two and two together scares me_.”

She grins. Spins herself around in her wheelie chair. “I am a force to be reckoned with. Maybe that’s _my_ superpower. You could call me ‘ _The Elucidator’_.”

“ _Catchy_ ,” he snorts, and then grows quiet. Darcy frowns- she can feel the discomfort coming off him from over the phoneline.

“Steve? What’s wrong?”

“ _He’s alive, Darcy. Bucky didn’t die_.”

The world goes still

And

Quiet.

“ _The fall didn’t kill him,_ ” Steve carries on. He sounds joyous and heartbroken and astounded all at once. This must feel like a miracle to him. “ _Zola did something to him, when they captured the 107 th. Made him like me. The Soviets found him- gave him a metal arm. Sold him off to Hydra eventually. They-_ God _\- the stuff they must have done to him, Darce,_ ” he chokes out, “ _wiped his memories- turned him into their_ tool. _But_ \- shit- _I fought him. He- he started to_ remember _me!_ ”

Her hands start to shake. Bucky is alive Bucky never died Bucky is _ALIVE_.

“ _Darcy?_ ”

“He’s alive?”

Steve is silent for a long moment. Darcy feels stretched thin; like one touch will shatter her. “He’s alive?” she asks again- louder, this time. Steve sighs, and it’s like all the energy’s flown out of him. Her wrist beneath the band she never removes _burns_. She rubs at it- feels the scars that warps her words through the soft cotton. She’d taken a razor to them on a particularly bad day early on, right before she’d cracked and started seeing an actual psychologist. Steve had been so scared and _so_ angry at her, even as he mopped up the blood and wrapped up her wrist with his gentle hands.

“ _Yeah, Darce_ ,” he says, softer and sadder. “ _He- he’s pretty messed up right now- he’s not in a good place, but I promise you Darcy_ \- I promise you- _I will find him, and I will bring him back; for you, doll. For both of us_.”

“Hydra,” she breathes, mouth dry. She’s certain there are tears in her eyes. “He was that guy on the news, right? The one they’re saying killed Fury? He- he _attacked you_.” She covers her mouth with a shaking hand. “I saw the footage, Steve. He tried to _kill you!_ ”

“ _He didn’t know who I was, Darcy. He didn’t even know his own name_.”

“Oh God-”

“ _But he_ saved me _. Up on the Helicarrier, he recognised me, right at the end. Pulled me out of the water_ -”

“Wait, what? Steve, were you on one of those helicarriers? As they were _falling_? Oh my God, what the _hell_ were you doing on them, is this why you're hurt so bad?"

There’s another lengthy pause on the other side of the line. Darcy knows _exactly_ what Steve is going to try and do- repress and redirect. She scowls at her computer screen, knowing full well where much of his injuries came from now. “ _Steven Grant Rogers_ , you need to stop trying to die a martyr, because so help me God, if one day you manage to succeed, I will recruit that shiny new soulmate of yours and together we will kill you. You’re too important. Too good to die for this world.”

Her eyes are trained on the Hydra files she still has up. Never before has she thought it so strongly.

“ _Darcy_ -” Steve breathes. He sounds like he’s in pain. He probably is. “ _He’d have loved you_.”

She swallows back tears of her own and stares down at her keyboard, as though it holds the answers to the universe within. “And you think he’d not now?” she winces once the words are out; she’d meant for them to sound joking, but they only come across as teary and vulnerable.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Steve sighs. “ _Buck’s… he’s messed up. Even if he did, I don’t know if you should_ -”

“Do you think me some delicate flower?” she snaps, anger flaring up in her chest- hot and unwanted. “Too pure and naïve to be near men like him?”

“ _No_ ,” he sighs again. He sounds tired and careworn.

“He’s my _soulmate_ , Steve. I want to be there for him, in whatever capacity he’ll take me. I- I won’t let him go again.”

_I can’t._

He’s quiet for a long moment, and all Darcy hears is his soft and steady breathing. She wonders what he’s doing- if he’s in pain. “ _The martyr thing goes both ways, you know. You can’t sacrifice yourself for him, Darce. He’ll never be the man he used to be_.”

“I never _knew_ the man he used to be.”

His breathing hitches. “ _I… yeah_ ,” he murmurs, clearly backing off. “ _Yeah, I’m sorry_.”

Darcy wishes fiercely that Steve were back in the Tower, so he could wrap his tree-trunk arms around her and she could take comfort in the smell of peppermint and orange-scented laundry detergent. He’s been gone for months, and she misses him something fierce.

“When are you coming home, Steve?”

“ _I don’t know…”_ he sighs heavily. “ _The hospital won’t release me until the day after tomorrow. And then there’s Fury’s funeral to attend the day after… Tony’ll probably send someone over to pick us up, but I don’t know if I’ll even go there. With Shield gone there’s so much to do._ ” He coughs wetly, and Darcy reminds herself that he’s still badly injured. A little part of her warms to know that she’s one of the first people he thought to call. “ _I need to weed out what’s left of Hydra before it can get a good foothold again, and Bucky is going to need help. I need… to bring him home._ ”

Darcy’s nodding, though she knows the gesture is lost on him. There’s an idea forming in her head- bright and hopeful and utterly impossible to ignore.

She could do it.

Hell, she could even be of use to him; Darcy’s a pro at wrestling with data (thanks in part to her time with Jane, and some innate talent she has for identifying patterns) and she’s a pretty good driver, _and_ Natasha, Clint and Thor had taken to teaching her how to defend herself ever since she moved into the Tower with Jane. Sure she’s no Black Widow, but she can hold her own fairly well, and she’s aces with a taser or three. Even better if they’re Tony Stark make.

“Come home, Steve,” she murmurs, already pulling up files on Hydra’s documented safehouses and bases and fully aware that he won’t be. “As soon as you can.”

He sighs. “ _I will, Darce_.” There’s a sound from over the line- a soft clatter of something. Steve grunts. “ _I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you soon_.”

“Bye Steve-” she tries, but he’s already hung up. Darcy sighs heavily and leans back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling as though it could tell her the answers to life’s great conundrums.

“If I may, Miss Lewis?” Jarvis asks some time later, voice turned down low in the quiet lab. Darcy hums and opens her eyes. She hadn’t even realised they were closed.

“Yeah, J?”

 “You have not slept for almost forty-five hours. May I suggest some sleep before Captain Rogers returns?”

She sits up, groaning at the pain of too-tense muscles. “I thought sleepy head protocols only covered the scientists.”

“Forgive me, but I took the liberty of extending them to you and Miss Potts.”

She smiles softly at the amusement in his voice. “Probably a good idea.”

“I have been known to have them.”

She huffs a laugh and stands up. Her vertebrae pop in several places. “Could you set my alarm to seven?”

“Ten am,” Jarvis barters. “Eight hours sleep is optimum.”

“Eight,” she counters.

“Nine am.”

She rolls her eyes. “Eight-thirty, and a giant pot of coffee.”

“Very well, Miss Lewis.” If Darcy didn’t know any better, she’d say the AI is sighing. She smiles softly as she walks out of the lab and down the hall to the elevator. “I shall see to it that your coffee is untouched for when you wake.”

“Thanks, J.”

“Of course, Miss Lewis.”

“And Jarvis,” the doors close behind her and the elevator speeds upwards, “could you do me a favour and flag every file from the Shield dump that you suspect is a Hydra affiliated location? Sorted according to level of importance and category of the base- safe house, research facility, weapons facility, storage, manned or unmanned, and other.”

“Understood, Miss Lewis. I will have the files ready for you when you wake.”

She stumbles down the hall and through the door to her shared apartment. “Thank-you. Wake me if there are any new developments.”

“Noted, Miss Lewis.” Jarvis says. Darcy wonders if he’ll heed that last order- she’s not exactly an Avenger, and above all, Tony has top priority.

She finds, as she flops down onto her bed and kicks off her shoes, she can’t actually bring herself to care.

She’s asleep within the minute, above the covers and still fully dressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is the last time I'll be writing a part of this storyline to prompts and posting them in here, BUT the next chapter that gets written will be going up as it's own story here on AO3. It'll get listed as an inspired work in this fic once it's up, so ya'll know :)
> 
> Thank-you to everyone who gave me such lovely feedback- I'm so unbelievably happy that people have enjoyed it enough to demand more :D


	6. Face on the Other Side of a Dark Window: Darcy/Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy finds herself in a bit of a pickle. Fortunately, Dean Winchester is more than happy to help out.  
> Supernatural/Hunter AU; Darcy is a hunter, as are the Avengers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGs FOR:  
> Mentions of blood.  
> Graphic Violence.  
> Torture.  
> Mentions of death.  
> Dark themes, to be expected if you've ever watched Supernatural.  
> PLEASE DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THESE MAY SQUICK/TRIGGER YOU.

Darcy has never had an issue with the dark.

When she isyounger, her favourite time of year is always the winter- where the air is cold and the nights seem to last an age. Her little brother detests it, but Darcy has no qualms with the nebulous depths of the night that envelope the world like a cold and heavy blanket. She has the confidence of her other senses to guide her, when her sight is stolen by the dark. She is not afraid.

When she falls into the hunting life at the tender age of twenty, it's only natural to shed day for night. Just as it's only natural for her to fit herself into the strange clique of hunters she discovers in New York- not long after she finds Jane (or, more to the point, Jane finds her- alone, terrified and about to be mauled to death by the wrathful spirit of her apartment’s previous occupant). It's maybe a little less natural for her to have joined Jane in the first place, but she takes to the new profession easily enough.

Hunters fit a type, she learns quickly, a day and a half into her ‘internship’ with the shockingly petite woman who can nonetheless deck a guy twice her size and interrogate a demon like she's fucking born for it.

Dark, brooding, self-destructive loners with tragic backstories and a hero complex a mile wide- Jane maybe doesn’t fit all of the archetypes (though her horrendous eating habits and the single, worn photograph of a young family hidden in wallet spoke for more than a few), but she fits enough, and the hunters they come across along the way fill in the rest of Darcy’s hunter-tropes bingo card. She stamps the traits time and time again in the men and women they meet on the road- especially in the group of hunters that call themselves the Avengers.

Weirdos, the lot of them, though they’re all seasoned veterans; which is saying something, considering the average life expectancy of a hunter is about ten years. Longer if you worked in groups. Tony has charts for the correlations and everything.

But Darcy loves them. Tony- the genius inventor and occult dabbler, whose creations have saved her on more than one occasion. Bruce, who generally stays on ‘base’ to relay information to off-site hunters; a soft-spoken man whom Darcy had been puzzled by, right up to the point where he joined a hunt with her and Jane, and went full-on berserker on a coven of vampires. Steve and Bucky- the golden boys, with maybe not the most kills under their belts (that dubious honour went to Clint and Natasha), but certainly the most memorable.  Sam, with his love of free running and a half completed medical degree, and Thor, who knows more about the occult than the rest of them combined, and who has been sending heart eyes Jane’s way ever since they’d stumbled across a case in Pennsylvania that he and the Power Couple had been working.

The group had taken Jane and Darcy under their wings; always happy to add more hunters to the line-up, as Tony aptly put it. Darcy is eternally grateful for the move- beyond the added security of people who have their back, the connections the Avengers have cultivated over the years have proved themselves to be a Godsend time and time again.

Especially on nights like these, when the depths of the night hold far less comfort than they usually do.

The cattle prod is a bolt of agony in her side- unrelenting. Her bitten-back screams are washed out by the heavy music, and the demon laughs as she dances round her to the throbbing bass.

“Where’s the rest of them, girl?” she calls, eyes flashing black. “Where’s the rest of your club?”

“Fuck you,” Darcy snarls. Jane will know she’s missing, by now. It won’t be long before she sends out an alert to the rest of them, but chances are Darcy will be dead by then. The stark reality of her situation pisses her off more than she expects. “I don’t know who you’re fucking talking about.”

“Wrong answer!” the woman shouts in glee, as though they were on a quiz show. “Too _bad_!”

Darcy screams for real as electricity floods through her, muscles twitching against her will. The bindings of her chair creak ominously.

She breathes out heavily when it finally relents. The demon makes a sound of sympathy. “Too much, sweetie? You know, it’s wouldn’t hurt so bad if you just _let it all out_.” She draws in close, but still out of reach of a headbutt. _Curse these competent demons_. “Where are they? Where are the Avengers?”

“Fuck. You.”

The demon straightens, pouting at Darcy. “You hunter types. Always so _loyal_ ,” she makes a face in distaste. “Doesn’t it ever get tiring?”

Darcy stays silent. Behind her interrogator, she catches a slip of skin- momentary fragments of a face behind the darkened window. She closes her eyes, unwilling to let anything slip.

A hand rests on her check, gently brushing away a stray tear. Darcy’s skin positively _crawls_ at the contact. “I’ll stop, sweetheart. You just have to say the word. Crowley can give you anything you want, you know. Fame, fortune… your family.”

Darcy twitches. “H-how did you know?” she asks in a tremulous voice. Anything to draw the interrogation out a little longer.

The demon huffs a soft laugh of perceived victory, “Hunters are always losing people lovie. Who slipped through your grip, sweetie? Mummy and Daddy? A boyfriend?... a girlfriend?”

Darcy flinches deliberately at the last one and the demon smiles at her with a few too many teeth. She draws in, lips close enough to press against her ear. “What was she like,” she croons. “Did you love her?”

Just within the corner of her vision, the back door opens slowly.

“She-” Darcy doesn’t need to do much to bring the tears back into her voice; everything still hurts like a bitch, “she was my _everything_. My first ghost stole her from me.”

The demon hums. “Aw, dear girl,” she murmurs, and strokes Darcy’s face again. She avoids looking at the door or the man that steps silently through, a long and ugly bowie knife in hand, “I can get her back for you. Good as new. Would you like that?”

Darcy swallows back the rising bile and vitriol, glancing up at her interrogator through her lashes. She nods shyly. “I’d like that a lot.” She whispers, even as the man lunges through the last few strides and plunges the knife straight through her neck. The demon stiffens. Blood splashes down onto Darcy, nauseatingly hot. The woman’s body sparks and hisses, eyes flashing as though a fire was lit inside her, before growing dull. She watches- detached- as the empty meat suit falls to the ground with a heavy _thump_.

“Thank Christ,” she sighs, and leans heavily back against her seat. Her saviour raises a brow.

“You alright?”

Darcy cracks her aching jaw and tugs pointedly at her bindings. She’ll deal with the overwhelming relief later. Hopefully there’ll be a bottle of tequila involved. “Just peachy. Little help?”

He starts forward, then stops. “You Darcy Lewis?”

She lets out a gusty sigh, no longer able to find the energy to smile. “The one and the same. How’d you find me?”

“Got a call from Bobby,” the man says and leans forwards to saw at the rope pinning her down. He smells faintly of axe bodyspray and gunpowder, and she takes moment to enjoy the smooth panes of his face. “Said there was a hunter around here needing help.”

Darcy nods. She’s heard of Bobby- he coordinates a lot of hunters down south, kind of like what Bruce does for them, “Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”

He looks up at her, lips quirked. “Anytime.”

“Christ, I hope not,” she snorts, and rubs at the tender skin of her wrists. He moves away to turn off the stereo. The silence seems deafening after all of the noise. “I’m Darcy- though I guess you already knew that.”

He grins at her with the kind of smile that has Darcy tempted to invite him into bed with her, “Dean.”

She pauses. Dean. _Bobby_ \- “You’re a Winchester, aren’t you?”

“What’s it to you?” he asks, scowling at the resigned tone of her voice.

Darcy gives him a half-hearted smile. “Your reputation precedes you, dude.”

He huffs a laugh and straightens up, helping her from her seat. His skin feel warm and dry, with calluses across the palms that Darcy knows come from gun use. She’s got more than a few herself.

“And what _does_ my reputation say about me?”

She laughs. Dusts herself off and wipes the blood from her face carefully. The demon’s meat suit lies motionless on the ground; she looks more like someone’s doting mother than a sadistic killer now. Darcy feels a pang of detached grief for the woman and the family she’s probably left behind. “I suppose that depends.”

“On what?”

She kneels down to rummage through the demon’s pockets. “On what side of the fight you manage to piss off.” She makes a soft sound of triumph when she finds a wallet in the woman’s coat. The driver’s license says Nancy Wallace, and her address harks all the way from Arizona. _You’re a long way from home, Nancy._ “You got a phone?”

He hands it to her without complaint and she calls up Jane with little fuss. It rings twice before the diminutive woman picks up- a record for her.

“ _Hello?_ ” a stressed voice says almost immediately. “ _Who is this?_ ”

“No need to panic anymore, Jane-the-brain. I am alive.”

Beside her, Dean snorts softly. There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line. “ _Darcy? Oh thank God- Darcy are you okay? What happened- you went out to get dinner and then you didn’t come back; I was freaking out. Bruce said he could pick up your tracking signal but-_ “

“ _Woah_ , slow down.” She sighs, “I’m okay. Some stray demon recognised me- I think it was just an opportunistic nab and grab; she didn’t seem to know where the rest of us were. Probably would have used you as leverage elsewise.”

“ _A demon? Darcy, I thought I taught you better than that!_ ”

She rolls her eyes, “It’s not like I could help it! I swear Jane, it was completely out of the blue, sneak attack and everything.” She pouts, “The bitch used chloroform- I’ve never seen a fucking demon use chloroform before!”

Jane sighs, “ _Well, I suppose all’s well that ends well. I presume someone helped you?_ ”

“Uh- yeah. The Most Esteemed Dean Winchester, in fact.”

There is a long and weighted pause from Jane’s end. She winks at the man in question, leaning against the wall like something straight out of badass monthly. The temptation to bed him thoroughly crosses her mind again, before she firmly reminds herself of the doom most of his trysts get themselves into.

“ _A Winchester?_ ” Jane exclaims, as expected. “ _What the hell Darcy! You’ve heard the stories- those boys are bad news! Is he still with you?_ ”

“Yup.” Darcy takes special care to pop the p. Jane makes a sound of frustrated distress.

“ _Where are you? I’m going to pick you up._ ”

“That, is a wonderful question. Dean, where the hell are we?”

He’s still smirking at her- obviously unable to hear the other side of her conversation. He rattles off an address and Darcy passes it onto Jane. There’s the sound of jingling keys, and the loud slam of the door of their bombed out van closing.

“ _Alright_ ,” Jane says, sounding harried, “ _I’ll be there in an hour. And for the love of God, Darcy._ Please, _don’t sleep with him_.”

She laughs, and sends another wink Dean’s way. Though Jane’s not there to see it, she’s sure the other woman can sense the flirting, “We’ll see, Jane-the-brain. See you in an hour.”

She hangs up before Jane can say anything else.


	7. Wanderer on a Scorched Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Apocalyptic, Magic AU. Mutant Darcy, no pairings.  
> Darcy wanders the Wastes and stumbles across far more than she ever bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned for this prompt to be a Darcy/Johnny Storm fic. Those plans never saw fruition. Have a ridiculous, ultra AU post-apocalyptic fic instead. 
> 
> A little bit of world building for this one... Thor came to Earth but never found Mjolnir and he remained human; therefore he never returned to Asgard and Loki never fell into the Abyss. At some point in 2013, The Turning occurred, wiping out large swathes of life across the world.  
> Shades are categorised according to their size (kind of like Kaiju in Pacific Rim). L1 is the weakest, L10 is all but unheard of.

They call her ‘The Wanderer’, amongst the circles she comes in contact with.

There’s a mythos attached to her name, she knows. A mystery to her reputation that she won’t lie about cultivating. It comes in useful more than once, and she finds she rather likes the awe and intimidation her presence elicits. So yes… perhaps she turns up the scowl, and makes herself a little more broody- a little more rude and brusque- when she’s in the settlements with those she doesn’t know. The trophies she brings back garner her the respect, but she knows that for many, it’s the attitude that lets her keep it.

It’s dangerous, out there in the wastes. Everyone knows it. And it’s worse if you’re alone; the loners go first, always. It’s the way of things; you hunt alone, you die alone. Safety in numbers, above all else.

But Darcy is different. Has always been different. Stronger, faster, hardier, more fierce, and maybe just a touch too ruthless. Once, they’d have pinned her as a mutant; now- were it not for the legend card- they’d pin her as a freak. Another monster to be destroyed. It’s part of why she travels alone. But her resilience suits her well, out in the wastes. She seeks companionship only when in need of food, water, supplies and occasionally, a good fuck. Elsewise she leaves the settlements for the settled. She doesn’t belong there, not anymore. Doesn’t exactly want to, either. Would rather hunt The Wastes for the real monsters; make the world a little safer with each speck of blood and dirty magic that stains her hands.

 

 

They call her The _Wanderer_ , but Darcy Lewis is no true wanderer.

She knows where her feet take her. Knows the dirt roads and half-dead scrub lands like few others. Knows the smell of death in the air, and the wavering wails of a Shade. She knows how to track, how to hunt, how to kill. Her movements have purpose- conserving energy is the true game out in The Deep, where the sun can kill you in a matter of hours and the twisted creatures that roam the dustbowl will sniff you out and swallow you whole in a heartbeat.

 

 

They call her _The_ Wanderer, but Darcy remembers a time when she was not one, but three. She remembers Jane, and Thor. Long gone now, but never forgotten.

She remembers Jane’s swelling belly; Thor’s joy and fear. She remembers the struggle of finding more food, the mind-numbing boredom of their short time in New-Triskelion- one of the few peaceful and ordered settlements left in the South. She remembers Jane’s smile, and her cautious optimism, and the growing pit of despair that welled in her stomach as the other woman grew large and fat with child.

And above all, she remembers the screaming. The bloodless face and a squalling life that lasts barely hours.

She remembers Thor, wasting away back on the road, weakening, finally _defeated_ by a L2 Shade somewhere in what was once called New Mexico, where Jane ran him over what felt like centuries ago.

She cannot forget the silence, the mound of rocks she placed over his cooled body, and the stench of burning flesh from the pyre she made of the monster that felled her final friend.

And then, she left.

She had not looked back.

 

 

Darcy’s days always begin the same way.

She wakes in the late afternoon; shakes the aches from her bones, banishes the uneasy dreams and exercises her body and mind. She eats, scours the camp for things left behind, or anything of value she can take with her. And then she begins her hunt.

Hunting a Shade is… well, not easy, per se, but by this point, certainly routine.

After ten years of scouring the wastes- seven of which were spent alone- she’s come across almost all the wreckage inland America has to offer. Seeking the trail of dirty magic a lone Shade leaves behind is old hat now. Setting up the traps to bait them into and tear apart their magic is so predictable it’s almost boring. Darcy never thought a job like hers could get boring, but hey, apparently there’s a first time for everything.

Then again, ever since the world turned to shit, most first times have been and gone.

Darcy tends to hunt in the Deep Wastes- happy to leave the outer edges, where most people now live, for the rookies, and those with more to lose. The bigger game lives inland, out in The Deep where the dirty magics are strongest.

She likes the solitude of The Deep, anyway. Likes the ruins of the old world; the hollowed out husks of towns she comes across- though she avoids the spiny horizons of the distant, emptied cities. Too many restless spirits to hide from; too many lives turned to dust for even a seasoned veteran like Darcy to dare go near. The cities breed Shades like nobody’s business anyway, and Darcy is entirely uninterested in partaking in suicide missions where she can help it.

But even the towns can be challenging. The Shades are like carrion birds; feeding from the souls left behind by The Turning, attracted to areas of power like moths to a flame. They consume all they can, and when they’re done, they leave for greener pastures. Most towns closer to the settlements- where The Turning was weaker- are long since consumed of anything of value, but the deeper you go, the more destruction The Turning wrought, and the ‘greener’ the lands. The spaces in between are as dry of value as the land itself. It’s her preferred place of rest.

Darcy finds the trail of a low L4 Shade along the ruined highway ten miles out of Buffalo, Missouri. She smiles when she feels the first stirrings of its wake; its presence confirmed shortly after by the soft beeping of one of Jane’s machines- one of the few remaining mementos of the woman that by some miracle still work, seven years after her death.

She stops the car. Gets out to stand on the sun baked and sand-blown asphalt and closes her eyes.

It’s still plenty bright enough for the sun to glow through the thin skin of her eyelids and there’s sweat dribbling down her back, but Darcy is well practiced in impromptu meditation. She breathes in deeply. Feels the influx of energy flow inside and lets it leave as easily as it came as she breathes out. She does it again and again, the familiar sensation of something close to hyperventilating resting beneath her skin, feels herself become saturated with oxygen and magic, until finally, it feels as though she’s on the verge of growing dizzy with it. She holds herself there, lets the power bubble beneath her skin. She searches within herself for the taint- the off taste of blood and pain and dying screams that every Shade leaves an imprint of.

 _There_.

She breathes out slowly, and lets everything but the taint and a little of the pure magic leave. When she reopens her eyes, she knows exactly where her trail leads her- into Buffalo (no surprise, but it always pays to double check) and then beyond, already finished with what it could find there. She lets the smile grow a little more and opens her eyes, turning around and hopping back into the truck.

Darcy drives through to the empty town, the setting sun reflecting through her rear vision mirror and catching in her eyes. She sings made up lyrics to a half-remembered song, uncaring that her voice fails to reach the appropriate high notes, or that she’s forgotten exactly how the riff in the middle goes.

Buffalo draws closer and she stops at the first good-sized house she passes, just outside the tow limits. Its architecture is reminiscent of the 1960s and she smiles in satisfaction that the sight, pulling into the driveway and killing the engine again. A rusted station-wagon sits in the space beside her, sick-looking grass tangled in the fender and the decaying tyres. The windows- most still unbroken- are growing an impressive collection of lichen and dust. She’ll see if it’s any good for gas later.

The slam of her door echoes down the street but she pays it no mind- there’s no Shade here; only dust and forgotten homesteads. She makes her way around the back, hooking her machete into her belt and navigates the dry grass as tall as her hip, making sure to stomp loudly to scare away any snakes.

The back yard is a familiar sight- rusted shed and long-dead gardens. A wooden fence leans precariously to one side, its poles rotten and grey. Her eyes catch on the bright wreckage of a playset on the porch- yellows and blues bleached by a decade in the sun, and a long strand of rope swings eerily from a single tree that still manages to cling to life. She sighs heavily and bypasses the house entirely for now.

What she’s searching for is a fallout shelter.

Logically, the shed is her best bet. The metal door is rusted shut, but several judicious whacks with the butt of her machete to the hinges and cheap combination lock allow her to pry the door open. It’s a good sized shed- big enough to hold all manner of things, but the space is oddly barren.

Darcy frowns at the sight- sheds aren’t made to be empty things- and no house with children would have kept one empty, old fallout shelter or not. She ventures inside, the smell of dust and decay overwhelmingly strong.

There’s a mound of _something_ lying in the far corner. _A body_ , she realises as she draws closer. The sight of the dried out corpse doesn’t surprise Darcy- they’re as common as grains of sand out in the Deep- but the sight of the open trapdoor at his feet is new. Just like the shed itself, the trapdoor is large- a two door contraption raised from the ground. One of them is opened outwards, the other still sits closed, as though the man had died trying to escape the shelter in a hurry.

She hums, curious, and kneels by the body. The clothing of the corpse is oddly militaristic- black beneath all the dust and grime- and his boots are thick and chunky. A gun lies just out of his reach.

Cautiously, she rolls him over. The cadaver is light and brittle, baked and dried from a decade of relentless summer. She sucks in a dusty breath at the embroidered symbol on his jacket.

A stylized eagle, wings outstretched.

“Holy shit.” She breathes in shock.

 _SHIELD_.

“What in the ever-living _fuck_ were you lot doing _here?_ ”

She remembers them- how could she forget? A heavy handed paramilitary organisation with unclear interests in Jane’s work and Thor. Jane liked to call them jack-booted thugs. Clint, Phil and Natasha used to work for them, but just like everything else, they’d gone up in smoke after The Turning.

Intrigued now, she straightens. Checks the stairs, but they’re concrete and unlikely to have deteriorated. She turns and leaves, back to her truck to grab her old lantern and backpack. She doesn’t know what’s down there, but being prepared hasn’t failed her yet. Darcy takes a moment to check the air before returns to the shelter, seeking any hints of an approaching Shade, but there’s nothing.

She notices the change in temperature the moment she takes a step through the metal doors. And maybe she’s only imagining it, but it’s almost like wading into a pool of icy water. The sensation of the shelter closing in over her head is unnerving in a way that Darcy hasn’t felt in months.

She grips her lantern a little tighter.

The stairs seem to go on forever, deeper and deeper into the earth, and Darcy grows more convinced that this is not your usual fallout shelter. Most homes could only ever afford shelters just a few feet below the surface, and there’s a certain clinical feel to the place- something impersonal and _wrong_ about the concrete walls.

There is a long line of light switches at the bottom of the stairs- experimentally, she flicks them all on, not exactly expecting anything to happen.

The responding hum of ventilation systems activating and the sluggish flicker of fluorescent lights turning on is a surprise that she’s not sure is pleasant or unsettling. _Must be attached to a generator or solar panels_ , she reasons as chills run up and down her spine. The corridor seems even starker under the bright lights, and she cuts off the flame in her lantern cautiously. There are no bodies down here, but the whole place puts her on edge anyway. She ventures down the corridor, trying out the first door she comes across. It leads to another corridor, and more doors- some open, some closed.

“A regular fucking rabbit warren,” she remarks to herself. She swallows back the uneasiness and slips through the door, intent on exploring every inch of this place. SHIELD wouldn’t have a facility here in _Buffalo_ for nothing, and she couldn’t live with herself if she never investigated the underground facility further.

The first true room she checks is an armoury. She lets out a low whistle at the sight of rows upon rows of weaponry, impresses despite herself. The tactical gear alone would fetch a pretty penny were she to take it back with her to any of the settlements. The guns themselves, coupled with piles upon piles of ammunitions could theoretically set her up for life.

There is no way in _hell_ she’s ever telling anyone about this place.

She leaves the armoury for now, but not without picking up a handgun and a good collection of bullets. Uneasiness aside, it’s not as though she’s expecting trouble, but she’d much rather be prepared for it than not.

Darcy checks all the rooms with doors she can open- some are offices, filled with paper files or computers. She takes a mental note of the small mess hall- there’s possibly a serviceable collection of canned goods there, and things like cutlery can always be salvaged for scrap metal back in the settlements. Darcy is slightly relieved though, that she’s yet to come across any more bodies. The facility must have been in the process of abandonment when The Turning happened.

At the end of the second hall is another set of stairs, leading downwards. The stairwell is dark- a single light in the wall flickers, struggling to turn on. She follows them- it’s only one floor down, but whatever lights are here evidently aren’t on the same switch as the ones upstairs.

In the weak glimmers of light from the wall, she can make out a heavy iron door- also ajar- and a series of glowing lights from what she presumes are computers within. If they needed to be kept on, it explains why the power could still run. She edges around it and into the room below. Blindly, she runs her hand across the wall, searching for another light switch.

Her fingers skim across hard plastic. She presses down and the lights flick on- faster than those upstairs. The sudden change in brightness is blinding, and Darcy has to take a moment to blink away the black spots in her vision.

There is another body in here, slumped against a wall beside a long line of computer monitors and rusted twirly chairs. She startles at the sight against her will, but is proud that she doesn’t yelp. It’s a scientist, she suspects- not because of any stereotypical clothing they wear, but simply because they’re not in combat gear. She swallows, and crouches down beside them. The stained plaid shirt reminds her of Jane, but the size of their shoes suggests it’s a man that died down here. She takes a whiff of the air- it smells surprisingly clean; no scent of decay or stale air.

“Ventilation system,” she notes to herself. Sure enough, if she listens carefully she can just make out the all but silent hum of the life support. It’s a miracle nothing’s found this place. She moves to stand, but catches sight of something smooth and shiny out of the corner of her eye, reflecting the bleak light of the lights back at her.

 _A tablet_.

Darcy reaches for it without really thinking- there’s _no way_ it can possibly still work, but she hasn’t seen one in _years_ and the thought of putting her hands on one sends a wave of nostalgia through her so strong it leaves her slightly dizzy. The ancient piece of technology feels cool beneath the endless layers of dust, and the weight of it- oddly heavy- almost sends her reeling back to her college days, and the StarkPad she’d bought second-hand from cousin. She pulls it away from the body but it snags on something, and belatedly she realises that it’s _still attached to the wall_.

She laughs at the realisation- a little hysterical. Reaches forwards to disconnect it from its charger. _God_ , the thought of it being on charge for a whole _decade_ has her unexpectedly emotional.

She wipes away the worst of the dust with the long sleeve of her shirt, hardly daring to hope. Touches the button on the side. Her heart feels as though it’s trying to slam its way out of her chest.

The screen turns on.

Darcy _cries._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo...  
> What would you guys say to hearing I have Plans for this fic? Like... several more chapters kind of Plans? That would go as their own, separate story to These Words Are Knives (much like Be Near Me Now/The 11th storyline has)?
> 
> ... And that Steve and Bucky would play a large role in these Plans?
> 
> Feel free to come and chat with me on [tumblr](http://cinnaatheart.tumblr.com/) :D


	8. Above, There is an Attic: Taserwings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy inherits more than just an attic full of crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronicles of Narnia Xover, Darcy Lewis/Sam Wilson

Above, there is an attic. It’s old and dusty, and can only be accessed by a trap door that extends from the ceiling.

It’s the stereotypical kind. The kind that mothers usher their children from with scolding tones and harried faces. Darcy know this, because her mother used to do exactly that when she was young and would stare longingly at the beaded string that hangs from the ceiling, always just out of reach.

The string isn’t out of her reach now. If she lifts her arm _just so_ , her fingers would brush easily against the string, red beads dusty and showing their age. If she went onto her tip-toes, she could easily grasp it and _pull,_ until stairs emerge like the cave in Aladdin.

Darcy wonders what Grandmother Lewis has left for her in the dusty tomb of the house. Her father is bound to sell the ancestral Lewis home as soon as the deeds are official, but her grandmother’s will had specifically stated that the contents of the attic were to be left to Darcy.

“It’s now or never, girl,” she mutters to herself, scowling at her uncharacteristic apprehension. It’s just a dusty room, filled with any number of treasures. She can handle a few dozen spiders.

She reaches- stretches _just so_. The beads feel gritty with dust, the glass cold in her hand. She tugs; lightly first to see how well the string holds up, then harder. She hears the _click_ and _thunk_ of springs and hinges working, and the ladder comes down in a shower of dust and stale, cool air. Darcy fights the urge to sneeze and flicks the switch on her small flashlight. The ladder, when she tries it, is solid and sturdy, with no worrying wobble or rattle. Her lips make a grim estimation of a smile and she climbs upwards.

The attic smells of old books and mothballs, and it inevitably reminds her of her grandmother and the boxes of carefully protected fabric, wool and furs stored in melamine chests. She had left those to Darcy too, and Jane was kind enough to let her keep them in their less-than-spacious flat.

When she pops her head up into the attic space, all she sees are boxes and the eerie shapes of two dressmaker’s mannequins, catching the dim light spearing in through the single window.

“Well, here’s to you Gran. Let’s see what you’ve left me.”

When Darcy was little, a trip into the attic would have been an adventure. Now it’s just sad. The last few months had not been pretty. She hauls herself up into the room, grimacing at the thick layer of dust that ends up on the knees of her tights. The smell of laudanum is almost overwhelming, and she sighs heavily, picking up the hum of her scarf to cover her nose. It doesn’t really help.

Her torch lights up a surprisingly large space, the dim light passing over ancient cardboard boxes, wooden crates overflowing with books, even more wooden chests and a number of thin, rectangular shapes covered by a bed sheet turned grey with age and grime that rest against the far wall. Curious, Darcy manoeuvres herself carefully between the boxes and crates stacked high enough to be a safety hazard to get to them.

The sheet feels dry and papery and rustles stiffly when she pulls it off the frames in one dramatic movement. The dust it sends up into the air has her regretting that path of action and sets into an impromptu choking fit.

“Shit,” she chokes. She did not think that one through.

When everything settles. Darcy finds herself face to face with a painting, sitting in a gaudy and expensive-looking gold frame. Judging from the three frames behind it, it’s not the only painting in the room, either.

“Huh,” she says quietly, almost afraid to touch. They look like something straight out of a museum, and the frames alone must cost a small fortune. She points her torch on the first one.

It’s… strange.

There’s a woman sitting on a stone throne, her countenance bright and youthful. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, lips tilted into the slightest of smirks. Her dress is a rich blue brocade and the matching choker of sapphires wrapped around her throat mirrors the deep blue of her eyes. The tiara that rests in her thick curls is understated, but regal. The work looks real enough to touch, if she dared.

It is also undoubtedly her grandmother- that smile taken straight out of one her wedding photographs from the 1960s.

Darcy frowns, and pulls back the painting of her grandmother to view the others. One shows another woman with the same dark hair and fair skin, her expression kind but solemn, the other two of young men, handsome and gallant-looking and all of them decked out in their Sunday best circa 1600, all sporting crowns.

“Where in the hell did you _get_ these, Gran?”

Predictably, the late Lewis matriarch doesn’t reply, and Darcy suddenly has the overwhelming urge to find the provenance of the paintings. The Lewis family has made its modest fortune in a small string of pawn shops and a dressmaking business that had seen better days twenty-five years ago. No one in her family could boast the kind of money needed for these kinds of paintings, short of stealing them.

Darcy is beginning to question her long-cultivated image of the little old woman with the wicked grin and the fantastical stories.

She looks again at the painting of her Gran. In the far left corner, she can make out the shape of a satyr (she thinks), standing out on a balcony beyond her throne. He stands beside… is that a dresser? She frowns again- it’s out of place in the otherwise regal and austere room she sits in.

As if against her will, her eyes slide to the looming shape on the other side of the attic. Like the paintings, it’s covered by a dusty and aged sheet. Darcy covers the paintings again carefully. They’ll be worth a pretty penny, she thinks. Maybe even enough to cover her student debt.

She covers her mouth and nose when she pulls _this_ sheet off. Great plumes of dust rise as it falls to the ground, and through the thin layer of grime on her glasses Darcy sees a dresser, made of redwood. It’s ornately carved with an apple tree centred between the doors and a many rayed sun beneath and a coat of arms above it.  Two lions heads are carved into the head of the dresser, mouths open in a silent, unending snarl. She frowns at the doors- there’s something familiar about the carvings- something like a story her grandmother used to tell her when she was small. But the memory is just out of reach.

There is a sign and a key hanging from the brass handle.

She unhooks them, curious. On the other side, written in the careful script of her grandmother’s (before her steady hand had been destroyed by the cancer that ravaged her body), reads the message:

_The way is closed to me, Darcy. But I doubt it will ever be for you._

“Way to make it weird, Gran.” Darcy mutters in disbelief, “What the hell.”

Even so, she puts the precious reminder of the precocious woman in the pocket of her sweater. She’ll frame it later; who even cared if it didn’t make total sense.

Hesitantly, Darcy touches the brass handle. It’s cold to the touch, and the key fits easily into the lock, turning as though it had been used only yesterday. The heavy _thud_ as it unlocks is satisfying in a visceral way.

“Here goes nothing.” Hopefully, there’ll be something interesting inside. Though it would be just like her Gran to troll her post-mortem.

The door opens silently, and Darcy stares in confusion at the plethora of elegant and expensive gowns that pack the small space.

“I pegged you as a lot of things, Gran, but a medieval costume enthusiast was _not_ one of them.” She fingers one of the intricate brocades lining a wide cuffed sleeve. It’s so odd… Darcy’s never even seen so much as a photograph of this side her paternal grandmother. Not even a story. And yet, here are a series of paintings and a wardrobe filled to the brim with gowns straight out of a ren fair. And _Jesus Christ_ how many fur coats did the woman manage to cram in here? There must be at least four full length coats… and the odd thing is, none of them smell even remotely of mothballs.

And then she feels the draft.

It’s nothing much- no cold blast of wind like she’s used to in her and Jane’s apartment. Just a warm breath of air that has no place in the cool and musty confines of the attic.

Darcy frowns and pushes apart some of the ridiculously well-made gowns. The wardrobe must have a shitty backing or something. Or be backed up against a neighbouring air-vent. She reaches out to test it and feels…

_Pine needles?_

“The fuck?”

She presses further into the dresser, and yep, that’s the long slender shape of pine needles, and the roughened bark of a tree she feels. Darcy tries to push apart the clothes, but they’re packed so tightly she sees nothing but silk and embroidery. She huffs in frustration, curiosity all but eating away at her now, and reaches in with both arms, determined to pull this piece of wrongness out into the air where she may inspect it properly. She wraps her hands around the roughened bark and tugs sharply, but the wood doesn’t give. Darcy grits her teeth. “C’mon now, work with me here,” and she yanks again, harder this time, now all but pressing herself into the wardrobe, one foot wedged into the small space (later, it will occur to her that she could have just pulled some of the dresses out. But that is a thought for another time). Yanks at it again when nothing happens-

 

And then the branch yanks _back_.

 

She shrieks, falling forwards, the gowns no more of a barrier than a stray waft of silk would be. Her hands jump up in front of her on instinct, protecting her face from the earth as it rises up to greet her. She lands hard, pain springing up in her right wrist, where she broke it a few years before. The ground is warm; rich soil and darkened pine needles beneath her palms. She rolls onto her back to shake out the strain in her wrists.

“What in the _ever living fuck_ did you keep in your attic?” she says loudly. The gnarled and twisted shape of the pine tree she lies beneath doesn’t reply. The tree is _huge_ \- at least a hundred feet tall, and maybe just as wide. She wonders how old it must be to be any shape other than the tall and straight things lined in rows in plantations like she’s used to. And there are even _more_ around her; if she turns her head she can see more of the things, a bit straighter than the one that tugged her in (which was just rude), but just as tall. Smaller trees and ferns grow in the spaces in between, grasping at any stray beams of sunlight that escape. It’s dark where she lies, deep in the shadow of the tugging tree. Dim and serene and Darcy is so _so_  out of her depth right now she can’t even begin to comprehend.

She stands on shaky legs, not caring that there are pine needles nestled in her hair and knitted sweater, and stares around herself in awe.

A lamp post looms a little further on from where she stands, inexplicably untouched by the greenery around her. Its golden light flickers steadily.

“What in the _fuck._ ” Darcy says intelligently. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches movement and she turns sharply.

A huge bird- long sleek lines and sharp eyes (a bird of prey, something Darcy doesn’t know enough about to identify)- sits at a nearby branch, watching her curiously. She offers it a helpless smile and tries not to feel like an absolute idiot, “I have literally no idea how I got here.”

The falcon (?) blinks at her. “You’re telling me, sweetheart.”

Darcy screams. The hawk lets out an ear-piercing shriek and flaps off to a branch a little further away.

“You- you _TALKED!_ ” Darcy cries, pointing a finger at the bird accusingly.

The peregrine has the audacity to look affronted.

“Well, so did you! I don’t know about you, but my mama taught me to speak when spoken to! It’s called being polite!”

“But you’re a _bird_!” she wails, “Oh my God, Gran, what the hell?”

“What?” the raptor bristles. “So just ‘cause I’m in the shape of a bird right now, I’m not allowed to speak? Aslan above, is this what all human girls are like? No wonder I never see you lot around here!”

Darcy scrubs at her face. This is so very very surreal, but the bird is right. She _is_ being kind of rude, talking bird or not. “I- wait. What do you mean ‘right now’?”

The eagle looks at her as though she’s said something very dumb. “Did your parents teach you nothing? I’m a skinwalker, aren’t I?”

Darcy stares at him blankly. She has a vague idea of what a ‘skin walker’ is, thanks for the most part to the likes of Game of Thrones and Supernatural.

But the bird of prey takers her silence as a no. It huffs in offence, “Humans. Honestly. Don’t know their left from their right.”

And then, quicker than Darcy can truly register, the bird shifts, and there’s a man sitting on the branch, long dark legs hanging down and warm brown eyes staring back at her. He is, she registers dumbly, extremely naked.

Darcy stares. And stares some more. She has the briefest impression that her grandmother is laughing her ass off at her somewhere in heaven.

“There are literally no words to describe how weirded out I am right now.”

The skin walker raises a brow, “You realise that’s a lie, right? By saying there are no words to describe something, you’re actually describing it.”

“Oxymoron,” she says. The other brow joins the first.

“Come again?”

She flushes red, “Oxymoron. It’s a- uh- literary paradox. More or less.”

The bird-man squints at her and hops down to the ground, landing in a graceful squat amongst some ferns. Darcy tries vainly to stare mostly at his face, but she can’t help admiring his impressive muscles- especially his arms. She’s sure she’s turned the colour of beetroot by now- the ferns are _not_ high enough to protect his modesty.

She swallows against a parched mouth. “What’s your name?” her eyes widen at a thought. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Is that rude? I feel like that’s rude. Do you have a name? Am I even allowed to ask you that? Oh God, oh Christ, I’m sorry…” the bird-man looks like he’s trying to hold back a smile, bemused, and Darcy realises that he’s actually quite handsome.

“Sam,” he says, before she can babble her way into more of a mess. “My name is Sam Wilson; falcon skin walker, occasional forest guide. And you?”

“Darcy Lewis,” she pauses, unsure of what kind of title she should give herself. “Human, student.”

Sam Wilson smiles at her, and his countenance seems to completely shift from slightly standoffish to friendly. “Interesting to meet you, Darcy Lewis. And forgive my forwardness, but where in Narnia did you bloody come from?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pew pew!  
> So for those who haven't found out yet, that post-apocalyptic au chapter now has it's own story called 'Surrender My Bones'. You can find it in the 'fincs inspired by' list.


	9. In Search of Sea Life: Wintershock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selkie AU, Wintershock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is honestly one of my favourite fics I've written for this story. I love mermaid AUs, but in typical Cinna fashion I've gotta do something different, so here you have a Selkie AU instead. 
> 
> Sorry this is kind of late. Internet on my extended road trip is few and far between. (And as if to reinstate this fact, my internet literally just cut out just as writing that last sentence ffs)

It’s dark out.

The Soldier isn’t meant to be out. They’ll punish him for this when they find him again, but he doesn’t care. There’s something about today. An itching in his skull that can’t be satisfied by any amount of scratching.

The itch brought him here- wherever here is. He stares out at the expanse of ocean before him, the smell of damp wood and salt filling his nose. So different from the concrete lairs he’s kept in. The pier is empty this time of night, his only companion the moon and the soft creak of wood and the gentle swell of the ocean. He finds the sounds soothing. It is a novel experience.

There’s something significant about this place. The Soldier doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know why or how he ended up here. Doesn’t even think this is really the place he’s searching for- there are things that are wrong, things that are missing from this quiet landscape. But he knows that there is something _important_ that he’d been searching for; something about a place that feels so much like this one. Something- somebody- that he’s missing.

_Wheezy laughter. A bony elbow in his ribs and the taste of something sweet and crisp on his tongue. The irritation of sunburn on his nose and shoulders._

_A face; thin, strained, with eyes the colour of-_

A movement in the water breaks the shaky memory and it disperses like smoke on the wind. He is drawing his weapon before he realises that it is only a seal. Its dark eyes glitter in the bright light of the moon and its long whiskers look like silver. He lowers his gun slowly, breathing out heavily.

The seal blinks at him and slips beneath the water. The reflection on the water is too bright for him to see where it goes. He wonders where it goes, briefly, before turning his attention back on the horizon.

The Soldier doesn’t know where he is. Not what city, or borough; not even what country. It’s a miracle he even found the ocean. Never has he felt that realisation so profoundly. He feels like the moon- distant, unattached but unable to escape the pull of the world. The sensation is a vicious ache in his gut.

“I like your arm.”

There is a woman in the water, beyond the sights of the Yarygin. She blinks up at him with wide and guileless eyes, unaffected by the thought of a gun trained on her.

“What?” he says eventually. His voice sounds rough. He’s not sure when he last even used it.

“Your arm,” she says, pointing up at him lazily, “I like it. I’ve never seen a man with a metal arm before. It’s very pretty.”

She’s naked, he realises. From the way she floats in the water, she cares as much for that as she does the threat of a bullet in her brain. He lowers the gun again, without truly thinking about it. She smiles at him- a slow and lazy thing that he doesn’t reciprocate.

“You’re bleeding.”

He glances down at the knife wound in his side. It’s still sluggishly leaking blood, but he can already feel it healing. In another ten minutes it will have scabbed over. He’s fortunate- any further to the left and he’d have been caught by the handlers long ago.

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

His free hand pokes at the gash and agony lances through his gut. He grits his teeth at the sensation and rides it out, the pain slowly dulling back to the persistent ache of before. His fingers shine wetly when he removes them, like he’d slicked them in oil.

“Pain is manageable,” he says eventually.

“If you say so,” She hums at him. “I got a hook in my leg once,” she rolls over in the water, long expanse of pale leg rising out of the ocean to showcase a long ridge of mottled purple skin, “Hurt like you wouldn’t believe.”

He nods slowly, unsure of how to reply. She just smiles again and stretches, breasts bared unashamedly. He wonders if she’s cold- she doesn’t look it, but it’s not exactly a balmy night.

“What’s your name?”

He frowns down at her. No one’s ever asked him that. That he can remember, “I don’t have one.”

Her head shakes, confusion running across her face like water, “Of course you have a name. All humans have names- even the ones that can’t takes care of themselves have names.” The Soldier’s frown deepens, grip on the Yarygin tightening. The look in her eyes grow sad. She bites her lip and straightens in the water, “I could give you one, if you’d like.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why-” he clears his throat, swallowing down the inexplicable sensation gathering in his jaw, “why would you… do that? Soldiers don’t need names.”

She treads water, drawing marginally closer, “And is that what you are? A soldier?”

He nods, “That’s what they call me. But it isn’t my name.”

She hums, “There’s not been a war here for a long time. What use is a soldier?”

_What use is a soldier?_

He feels tired, “I don’t know.” He kneels carefully, and sits with his legs hanging off the edge of the pier. It’s the most casual position he’s ever been in, he’s sure. It feels… wrong. He leaves the gun in his lap and feels marginally better.

She sighs heavily, glancing away to stare at the moon for a long moment, “I suppose there are other places in need of soldiers?”

“I suppose.”

They’re silent a moment, then she grins. There seem to be one too many teeth in her smile, and it transforms her into something predatory, “I have it!” she exclaims, “I name thee Cathasach.”

He blinks at her in surprise, “Kath- Kathshesack?”

“ _Cathasach_. It means, ‘the warrior who waits in vigilance for the sun to rise’.”

He stares down at the gun in his lap. He’s not even sure he’ll remember the name by the time the sun does choose to rise, but the gifting of a name evokes a distant sense of belonging. “Thank-you,” he says quietly. He hears the sound of soft splashing.

“You needn’t thank me; all beings should have a name,” she says. The woman turns again to float on her back again, arms spreading out to keep herself afloat. Her dark hair rests like tendrils of weeds around her throat and breasts, “I am Dorcha- but you may call me Darcy.”

He licks his lips, “What does it mean?”

She smiles that wicked smile of hers again, “Child of the Dark One.” She draws closer again- ripples spreading away from her as she lazily paddles. If she lifted her arm, she could touch his boots, “How did you get that arm?”

_Screams, the sensation of burning in a mountain of snow, flashes of red and fingers just out of reach._

He shakes the fragmented nightmare away, “I don’t know- don’t remember.”

“Hm,” Darcy muses, “I wonder; does it cover your arm, or just replace it?”

“I don’t know.”

She shrugs. The Soldier- no, Cathasach- thinks she looks very peaceful. It startles him, somewhat; he always thought people could only ever look peaceful in death. He wonders if she’s always like this, even with the predator running beneath the surface; like the depths of a lake, dark and unforgiving.

“What are you?” The question that escapes his mouth surprises him- as a question it doesn’t exactly make sense. Darcy just smiles at him enigmatically.

“What are _you_?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but hears the distant sounds of heavy boots on wood. He stiffens at the same moment Darcy straightens in the water, head turned in the exact direction of the sounds.

“They’re coming for me.” He says, stomach tightening with some unknown feeling.

She glances back up at him, “Who?”

“The- my handlers. They’ll take me back- back to the chair.” _Back to the Cold_. His grip on the Yarygin tightens again. He could take them, theoretically- he has fifteen bullets left; enough for two each. But they always come with words- words to twist and control and _break_. Words that have yet to fail them.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Darcy looks up at him solemnly, “Come with me.”

He pauses halfway through his movements to get up, then continues, “What?”

“Come with me,” her voice strengthens, “You needn’t go back with them. They’ll only hurt you more.” There’s something slipping into the gentle cadence of her words- something that he feels in the depths of his bones, but cannot name. Her arm rises from the water, beseeching and commanding all at once, “There are no more wars here for you to fight, soldier. C _ome with me,_ Cathasach.”

He glances behind him, where the sounds of the handlers grows louder and more urgent. He cannot even bear to think about returning to the Cold. Darcy makes a soft noise of urgency.

“Cathasach.” She purrs, the _something_ in her voice growing, “You don’t need to hurt anymore.”

He stands at the edge of the pier. Darcy gazes up at him imploringly. Her eyes look almost silver in the pale light of the moon.

“Trust me,” she says. “Please.”

There are shouts now- men catching sight of his silhouette.

“Jump,” Darcy commands softly, arms stretched wide, “Jump. For me.”

 

 

He jumps.


	10. A Figure At the Edge of the Woods: Tasertricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tasertricks. Teenager Darcy has a not-so-fun time at her grandparent's.

When Darcy is seventeen, her father sends her on a ‘holiday’ to the wilds of Illinois to live with her grandparents, whilst he charms and courts the woman Darcy will later rename the Wicked Witch of the West.

Darcy- who’d been looking forward to a summer spent primarily at her friend’s house- is understandably unimpressed.

To say the Lewis farm is a dump would be an understatement, but it’s a statement Darcy uses ad nauseum for _at_ _least_ the first month. Country roots or not, Darcy Lewis is a city girl born and bred, and at seventeen she’s bitter about being ostensibly dumped by her less-than-reliable father onto a couple she knows from only a handful of Christmases. She’d leave, but even at seventeen Darcy understands that that is _not_ a path she wants to put herself on.

She takes to escaping the mind-numbing drudgery of the Lewis farm by running through the endless green fields of dairy cows, dodging the cow pats and vaulting over barbed wire and the occasional electric fence.

It’s not her first choice of entertainment.

In fact, running had initially been something she hadn’t thought she’d willingly do since grade school, but there’s shit all do actually _do_ on the farm, and with land so empty, it feels as close to flying as she knows she’ll ever get.

The feeling of the wind through her hair and whipping past her ears is freeing; enough to let her forget how angry she is with her new living arrangements (Granny Lewis is a prude to the _nth_ degree, and her grandfather is of the firm [and outdated] opinion that women should be seen and not heard. The three of them are a match made in hell, and they get on about as well as a house _actually_ on fire).

Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for her runs to become daily ventures into the Illinois landscape, lasting hours and ending with her returning to the farmstead sweat soaked and smelling of dirt and grass. Her dishevelment is met with a stern disapproval that none of them actually talk about; her grandparents want her on the farm almost as little as Darcy does, and after the first week she’d worked out that their threats and criticisms meant jack shit in the face of dobbing them into child services. Her ‘runs’ grow longer. She takes a packed lunch with her; sometimes even a few meals in between. Eventually she’s gone the whole day, returning only as the sun begins to creep towards the Earth.

Most of her time isn’t spent running, of course. The Lewis property is large enough for her to run around it for hours if she really wanted to, but for the most part Darcy finds herself gravitating back to the small patch of forest along the northwest edge of the property. It’s nothing much- only a small collection of pine trees well past their use-by date and a towering, ancient oak tree, hugging at the faint line of a creek that only fills with water when it rains. But it has a certain beauty- a certain inescapable charm- that has her enchanted.

If she could, she’d build herself a treehouse in the branches of the oak and never leave.

After three weeks of her self-inflicted banishment, she withdraws some of her precious savings on a rare trip into the nearest town, and buys herself a hammock whilst her grandparents are trawling the aisles of the supermarket. She has the perfect place in mind to hang it from, and she relishes the thought of lounging in the forest in something more comfortable than the heavy branches of the oak.

She runs with more vigour than usual the next day, excited at the thought of personalising her sanctuary. The quiet patch of greenery makes her feel like the queen of her own little kingdom, and the solitude is soothing in a way she’d never thought possible four weeks ago. She has _plans_ for her sanctuary, but she knows it needs to be done in secret, lest her grandparents steal it from her.

As she draws closer though, she slows. Darcy’s eyesight isn’t the best, but she’s fairly sure there’s a man standing at the outskirts of her forest. The closer she gets, the more confident she is there’s someone there. Righteous anger flares in her chest.

Technically speaking, the woods are on her grandparent’s property, and to her seventeen year old mind, that makes this space _hers._

She picks up her pace.

“ _Hey!_ ” she yells when she’s near enough to make out the man’s long hair and odd, hippy-like clothing. The man starts, “Hey, clear off!”

The man straightens and turns, and for a moment Darcy’s eyes must wig out on her, because she could have sworn he was in his late twenties, early thirties, but when she blinks and gets a better look at him, she realises he’s about her age.

“I beg your pardon?” the boy asks in smooth, clipped tones. His accent is odd- British, Darcy thinks, but also not. The panes of his face are sharp and angular, his long limbs equally so, but he holds none of the awkward energy she’s used to seeing in boys his age.

“I said,” she lowers her voice as she draws closer, feeling a little foolish now, but too stubborn to back down, “clear off. This is private property, and _you_ are trespassing.”

“Am I,” the boy says. He doesn’t appear bothered by the thought. Doesn’t sound it either.

“Yah-huh. And as a member of the people who _lives_ here, I’m telling you to clear off.”

He raises an arrogant brow, “I think not.”

Darcy splutters. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

He smirks at her and leans against the trunk of a pine tree. “Did I stutter?”

“Did _I_ fucking stutter?”

Something in his eyes sparks a moment at her backtalk, before dying, morphing into something closer to amusement. He bows his head. “You did not.”

She tilts her head, feeling sassier than she’s felt in what seems like _months._ “S’what I thought.” She frowns, taking in his strange clothing. They’re weird, for sure, but they also look like they’re expensive, which probably takes ‘possible hippy’ off the list, and suddenly she finds herself more curious than put out, “What the hell are you even doing here?” she motions around them. “There’s piss all here for miles around. Not exactly a prime location for trespassing.”

The smirk returns and he crosses his arms- the picture of causal poise, “On the contrary, there is much to be found in this landscape for the intrepid surveyor.”

Darcy raises a doubtful brow. “Oh, sure there is, if what you’re looking for are farmers and cow shit.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment in what Darcy suspects is a classy version of snickering. “Also true, I suppose.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

He seems taken aback by the moniker, “I am not your brother.”

“I-” she starts in confusion, “-well, no. It’s a figure of speech.”

His lips thin for a moment. He nods, “Oh.”

She smiles at him and grips at the straps of her pack a little tighter, “Where’re you from?”

He gives her a self-depreciating smile, “Not here… far away.”

Darcy motions up and down at his getup, “Well, I kind of figured that; no one’s gonna walk around in clothes like _that_ unless they’re asking for a beating. Or they know a lot about _hemp_.”

“Indeed,” he smirks, something Darcy can’t place flashing in his eyes.

Her eyes slide past him to take in her forest. She’d ask again what the hell he’s doing here, but she has a feeling he’ll just deflect again. The hammock- still in its packaging- is a heavy weight in her pack.

“What’s your name?”

He stares at her, green eyes glittering almost unnaturally, and Darcy gets the impression that he’s staring straight into her soul. She licks her lips nervously and hopes he doesn’t find her wanting.

“Loki.” He says finally, and the spell breaks. Darcy feels her lungs expel themselves of air almost against her will, “My name is Loki.”

She frowns, “What, like the Norse god?”

His head tilts and the corner of his mouth twitches into something closely resembling a smile, “Exactly like the Norse god,” he says. “The god of fire and trickery, to be more precise.”

Darcy sucks at her teeth in deliberation. This guy’s weird, but he doesn’t _seem_ like a psycho. And she really wants to get this hammock up before she has to return to the farmstead. She sighs.

“Well then Loki… What kind of experience do you have with hammocks?”


	11. The Photograph: Shieldshock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire AU, Steve/Darcy.

Steve stares at the photograph, transfixed.

 _Berlin, May 1940_ , the transcription reads beneath it. The image is faded in places- digital remastering doing only so much for the ravages of time, _A Jewish woman waits for her train_.

She’s beautiful, he notes. Plush lips, a curved figure. She stares into the camera with a solemn, soulful gaze that cuts him straight to his soul. She wears the Star of David proudly, stitched over her heart as though protecting it from view. He can imagine the colours, missing beneath the nostalgia of the black and white photograph.

There’s an edge to her- something sharp and vicious hiding in her eyes- in the downturned curve of her lips- that reminds him somewhat of Natasha. A defiance of the world; one who refuses to break. Only bend. 

He wonders what happened to her- did she escape the Nazis? Find a better life for herself in another country? Did she ever marry- have children, grow old and die? He wishes he could find out, but knows that perhaps he doesn’t truly want that answer. The systematic murder of six million Jews was an unthinkable number for a reason.

Steve sighs, closing the magazine and curling it up. Tony was meant to be in his lab twenty minutes ago, and it’s best if he doesn’t put himself in a mood before the man finally chooses to turn up. It would only lead him to breaking things.

Well, more things. He nudges the broken gauntlet forlornly.

He hears the genius well before he sees him, walking down the corridor to his lab, quietly speaking with a woman. Her voice is unfamiliar- slightly nasal and croaky- and the cadence of her heels are more irregular than that of Natasha or Pepper. He unconsciously straightens out of his slouch on the lab sofa as they round the corner and enter the space.

The woman laughs at something Tony says, long brown hair disfiguring her face. She holds a clipboard, propped against her hip, and Steve can just make out the tip of a pen sticking out from her hair. He takes a brief moment to admire the floral pattern on her generous skirt as it swishes with her every step.

Tony grins at the sight of Steve, “Captain!” he says, arms spreading wide and almost knocking into his companion, “What brings you to my humble abode? Have you met Lewis? You should meet Lewis- she’s Pepper’s new PA!”

Steve nods absently, but his gaze is trained on Lewis. _A doppelgänger_ , he thinks, staring in surprise at the woman from the photograph, in the flesh. Her hair is different, her lips a violent shade of red, but she wears the same look of defiance; still holds a strength in her gaze that belies the slight slouch she wears even in her two inch heels. They draw closer.

She smirks at him, lips like a slash of blood across her face, “Darcy Lewis,” she says, voice a dry purr of sound. She extends her hand for him to take; her skin feels cool and dry, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

He clears his throat, trying to dispel the sense of disequilibrium he gets at the sight of her. He’d just barely closed the magazine, for Christ’s sake, “Uh- Steve. Steve Rogers,” he fumbles, “But you… uh…” _probably knew that_ , he finishes off in his head. Congratulations, Steve Rogers, once again proving your inability to speak to women.

Darcy’s smirk turns into a full on grin, icy blue eyes glittering, “I did, but it’s nice of you to confirm it.”

Tony, fortunately, chooses that exact moment to pop his lips, eyes twitching between the two of them. He looks vaguely unnerved, “Whelp. Yes. Uh- so that’s a thing. Lovely,” He says, then seems to suddenly realise Steve must be in his lab for a reason, “What can I do for you, Rogers?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. He feels flushed, and more embarrassed than he probably should, “I broke the magnets again.”

Tony pouts, “Those were meant to be _unbreakable_ , Steve! I tried _really_ hard with those ones!” he pauses, then makes a face, “Okay. So not really hard. Okay, a night. Okay, at _least_ three hours. But that is like, ages in Stark time!”

Steve raises a brow, the move mirrored by the woman standing in front of him, “Well, apparently they don’t fare so well against Natasha’s widow bites.”

That had been a rather painful discovery, too.

“I can see that being a problem in the field, I guess,” he admits. He scowls, “I swear, that woman is intent on destroying as much of my tech as possible.” He tuts and turns away, stumbling into Miss Lewis. He starts, “Lewis? Why are you still here? Why aren’t you gone- you should be gone. Pepper probably needs you for some kind of thing. Or Foster.”

The woman rolls her eyes, but she looks more exasperated than insulted by his blasé dismissal. Steve wonders if she got that look from Pepper, or if it came naturally to her, “The forms, Stark. I’m not leaving until you sign them.” She lifts up her clip board and waves it at him, “We’ve been through this. Remember last time? You didn’t like last time; don’t make me repeat history.”

Lord, but the way she speaks reminds him of Tony. Never mind the woman in the magazine, Miss Lewis was a clone of Tony.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Tony growls, running a hand through his hair, “Fine. No more Macarena, _please_. Give them here.”

She places the files into her waiting grabby hands without further comment, pen pointed his way before he can even ask for one. Tony signs off on the required sections with little more than what Steve can guess is a cursory read of the contract.

“There!” he exclaims, and shoves the pen and papers against her chest like a petulant child, “Now g’it! I’ve important things to make- things that will save the world! Go buy you and Pepper a coffee or something! My treat.”

Darcy laughs, head tilting back slightly at the throaty sound, “Technically Stark, everything I buy is your treat.”

“Cheeky,” the older man says with narrowed eyes. She tucks the pen back behind her ear. As Stark turns away to his holographic table to bring up the magnetic gauntlet specifications, her eyes land on Steve again. In the space between her smiles, the uncanny likeness to the Jewish woman in the photograph strikes him again, “’Til we meet again, Captain.”

He nods slowly, “All the best, Miss Lewis.”

“And to you too, Captain Rogers.” She sends him a little wave as she saunters out, his eyes trained on the subtle roll of her hips and the brisk _tap_ of her heels on the floor.

 

* * *

 

The next time he sees Darcy Lewis, it’s her doppelgänger, on a website dedicated to the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s.

 _A young woman_ , it reads _, showcasing her collection of paramours. 1968._

The Darcy Lewis look-alike stands in a floor-length evening dress, a sultry smile across her lips and a knowing look in her eye. Her arms are wrapped around the waists of two shirtless and smiling young men- one tall and skinny, the other stocky, with thick, beefy arms and sideburns. The skinnier man has an awed, slightly dazed look about him. There’s a visibly large mark on his neck; like a bruise, or a birthmark (though given the context of the image, there’s every likelihood that it’s a lovebite).

He bites the inside of his cheek, staring intently at the image. The likeness is more than uncanny, but in his shock from the last time, he’d neglected to take the magazine with him. He saves the image and scrolls through the page for more information, but to his frustration the image isn’t sourced.

They could, theoretically, be mother and daughter and granddaughter. But there’s a feeling in the pit of Steve’s stomach that’s saying there’s something more to it than that. They’re just _too_ similar. Too identical. He can’t just brush this off.

So Steve saves the image. Keeps it in a folder labelled _doppelgängers_. And maybe he contacts the website, inquiring as to where the image came from. And maybe he follows up on the contact they give him, and learns that it’s a dead end. And maybe he finds another copy of the article with the Jewish woman, and saves that picture too.

And then he's sent to DC, and any thoughts of prying further are postponed. 

 

* * *

 

Shield falls. Hydra rises from the ashes, and is squashed beneath the boots of those still loyal.

He sees a picture of Pepper at a press release, tall and regal, expression cold and businesslike. Her personal assistant Darcy Lewis stands to her left, face slightly indistinct in the newspaper photograph, but the red line of her lips are stretched taut in a plastic smile. He folds the page up carefully and ignores the perplexed look Sam sends him as he tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.

And then he returns his attention to his greasy diner breakfast and pushes all thoughts of Darcy Lewis and her string of photocopies to the back of his mind.

 

* * *

 

Steve stumble across the next photograph searching for information about Bucky.

The Shield-Hydra dump, as it turns out, includes a number of files from a Hydra science base operating out of Nazi occupied Poland, including (but not restricted to) a number of files on a series of experiments with early cryogenics. He’s looking for any information that could be useful in his search for Bucky, and has somehow gotten it into his head that knowing what effects his time in cryostasis will be helpful.

The result in the old notes aren’t promising; most of their subjects died of various complications- from plain old freezing to death to septicaemia- but Steve comforts himself by remembering that Bucky’s serum is likely to have prevented a number of effects freezing would have on the body.

He comes across the photograph in a section discussing what he can only guess is a search from a non-lethal antifreeze serum. Experiment after experiment is listed as a gruesome failure, and the thought of so many dead frankly makes Steve’s stomach turn. Hydra has _so much_ to answer for.

One of the final reports are of something called woda śmierć [(Death water)]. It notes that the serum caused no detrimental effects to the subject, and exposure to extreme cold showed a singular prevention of frost bite. Though the subject still died from cold exposure, it was noted that resuscitation was successful.

The accompanying picture has his breath catching in his throat.  

The Jewish woman stares out at him, gaze as defiant as ever, despite the heavy bags beneath her eyes and the shaved skull. Her gaunt stare is damming.

 _Experiment 626_ , the notation reads.

How many people had she lost? How many did she watch die? How many unspeakable horrors were done to her? _So much pain_. The woman who died. He wonders if it was painful, or did she simply close her eyes in one moment and open them in another, like Steve?

Like Steve.

Like Bucky-

He breathes out slowly at the sudden onslaught of emotion, leaning forward on the table and resting his head in his hands. He fights the inexplicable urge to cry.

“Alright there, big guy?” Sam asks, concerned.

“Fine,” Steve grits out, and snaps a photo of the woman with his phone, “Just tired, I guess.”

Sam hums, “Yeah buddy, I feel you.” He crosses his legs on the ancient motel bed, “Should probably get some sleep- I don’t know how helpful those files are gonna be.”

Steve stares down at Experiment 626 with eyes that burn. He wishes he had a name for her.

“Yeah,” he says finally. He swallows, “I don’t think these are going to be much help at all.”

 

* * *

 

“This is getting out of hand,” Steve mutters to himself, glaring at the television. The paused faces stare back at him with grins and wide, static smiles.

He stands, drawing closer to take in the grainy features. He’s lucky to have even noticed her- blink, and he’d have missed it.

“What’s gettin’ outta hand?” Bucky asks, popping out of the kitchen. He raises a brow at Steve, standing close enough to touch the screen, “You know there’s a zoom function _on_ the TV.”

“Yeah, I-” Steve shrugs, choosing not to ask how _Bucky_ knows that, “I forgot.”

“Ah huh.” Bucky says, “Think you’re getting old.”

“We’re all getting old, Buck,” Steve replies absently. _Except for her_.

“Punk,” Bucky mutters, and disappears back into the kitchen. Steve fight the urge to touch the television screen like a loon. In full technicolour, the red of her lips and icy eyes are unmistakable, hair cut in a short and fashionable bob. She stands beside a grinning Howard Stark as though she belongs there.

What is she even _doing_ in the arms race documentary?

“Jarvis? Can you save that picture for me, please.”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

“Do you know when this film was taken?”

A slight pause, “I do, sir.”

“Who is she? How does she know Howard Stark?”

A longer pause, as though the AI is hesitating, “Doctor Phoebe Jäger, Captain. She was one of Stark Industries’ leading engineers in the 1980s, and a good friend of Howard Stark.”

A name. Not Darcy Lewis, but if she is what Steve suspects her to be, then it’s not exactly a surprise, either. Something happened to her in that Hydra facility, Steve’s certain. Something changed her, froze her in time.

“What happened to her?”

“She died, sir,” comes the too-quick response. It’s an odd sensation, being lied to by an artificial intelligence system, “She was a victim of a hit and run in 1986.”

Steve hums, staring at the image of the woman who has been haunting him for eighteen months now, “Is Pepper in the tower today, Jarvis?”

“She is, Captain.” Steve wonders if Jarvis knows what he’s planning to do. Surely, he must, “Miss Potts is presently in her office. Would you like me to let you know you are coming?”

“Yes please,” he nods, turning away to pick up the remote and turn off the television. There’s no point to him watching the documentary now; his head is too tied up in doppelgängers and conspiracies about women who should be dead.

“I’m going out, Buck,” he calls, moving to put on his shoes. There’s a soft sound of annoyance from the other room.

“No fresh out of the oven cookies for you, then.”

Steve grimaces. That was a low blow, “Something’s come up- I need to talk to Pepper.”

Bucky returns to watch him put his shoes on, wiping his hands against his jeans as he leans against a wall, “I know you’re lying.”

Steve sends him a pleading look. The other man rolls his eyes, “Don’t go getting yourself into trouble.”

He grins at that, and flutters his lashes in innocence, “Come on Bucky; when have I ever gone lookin’ for trouble before?”

The flat, unimpressed stare is enough to have him laughing all the lifts.

 

* * *

 

By some gratuitous twist of fate, Miss Darcy Lewis is still sitting at her desk outside Pepper’s office when he arrives. She smiles at him when he arrives; a thinner, less exuberant one than he remembers.

“Captain Rogers.”

“Miss Lewis.”

They remain silent for a long moment, Darcy searching for something in his face. His grip on his phone tightens. She sighs and leans back in her chair. She looks tired; worn. It doesn’t suit her youthful features.

“You know, then.”

He gives her a half shrug and sits in the chair in front of her desk. He probably should have asked, but he didn’t want to come off as threatening, “A little. Enough.”

Her lips twist in a grim approximation of a smile, “It was that magazine article, wasn’t it? I didn’t miss the way you looked at it the first time we met.”

He nods, “That was the start. Then I found others. You’re older than you look, aren’t you?”

She scratches at the corner of her eyebrow, nonchalant, “So are you.”

He huffs a laugh, “I think our situations are a little different.”

“True,” she concedes. “You slept through most of yours.”

“I did.”

They fall silent again. Pepper doesn’t emerge from her office.

“I collected the pictures I found of you,” he blurts out. He flushes slightly at the way it sounds, but Darcy seems to brighten.

“Did you?” she grins, hand sneaking forward to grab her phone, “I do that too; I come across them every now and then. I like to see where history has taken me.”

“You’re not… mad?”

She laughs softly, flicking through her phone, “Not even creeped out, man. There are far weirder things you could have been doing.” She looks up, eyes sparkling, “You wanna compare? I’ll see if you’ve something I’ve missed.”

He frowns slightly in confusion, “Okay, now I feel a little weird.” She snorts, but shrugs at him, unaffected.

“Eh. I like to think of as something akin to trading cards. Now, gimme your phone- I wanna see if you’ve got any of the shinies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Experiement 626.... can you tell what I was watching when I wrote this one XD
> 
> So this is actually a one shot (and noooo I will not write more, I have so much on my plate right now it's not funny D': ) but the good news is, [this post](http://cinnaatheart.tumblr.com/post/132868028372/the-photograph-darcysteve-vampire-au) has two more little drabbles that I wrote that you CAN read. So enjoy!


	12. A Hero in the Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy Lweis & Steve Rogers. Darcy is Tony's Daughter. Pre-CA:TWS (Canon divergence)

The door to Lewis’ apartment is unlocked, the space behind it silent but for the hum of a refrigerator. He enters cautiously- Steve already tried knocking, but there’d been no answer.

Steve has had misgivings about this job from the start, and the dark and quiet apartment he enters does nothing to assuage his concerns. It’s dinner time on a Sunday night- for all intents and purposes, Lewis _should_ be in. He pulls out his handgun, nerves on edge.

“Miss Lewis?” he calls out. No answer. He checks the kitchen first; there’s no sign of a struggle, but the kettle is hot to the touch and there’s an untouched mug of instant coffee on the counter. The living room is equally empty, the tv shut off, a dirty plate on the coffee table. The apartment itself is surprisingly sparse, despite what he’d read about its occupant in his dossier. There’s no identifying pictures, no eclectic collection of knick-knacks or artworks- only a few novels and a disassembled computer.

It’s not until he reaches the bedroom that his enhanced hearing picks up the breathing.

“Miss Lewis?” he knocks lightly at the closed door. The breathing breaks off and he hears the rustle of clothing, “Miss Lewis, my name is Captain Steve Rogers. ’m here on behalf of Shield.”

Soft footsteps on carpet. The door swings open, and the wide blue eyes of Darcy Lewis stare out at him. She’s carrying a backpack, he notices, and he catches sight of what look like hearing aids in her ears. Steve doesn’t remember any mention of this in her file. He watches as the undisguised shock on her face is replaced by relief, followed rapidly by resolve.

“Captain America? Breaking into my apartment? Aren’t I lucky.” There’s something strained about the smirk she gives him, hiding in the corners of her eyes. He gives the young woman what he hopes is a comforting smile.

“I’m sorry to barge in, Miss Lewis, but I’m going to need you to come with me.”

The hand on the strap of her backpack tightens minutely. “And why exactly would I want to do that?”

“Shield has intel that your safety has been compromised.” _But judging by the state of your room, you already knew that_ , he thinks to himself. Her room is a mess- there are drawers throw open, clothes strewn across her bed, and several gutted out computer towers sitting on the floor beside her bed. He wonders what use a political science PhD student has with them

She snorts, “Is it now.”

“Shield will relocate you to a more secure facility until they have removed the threat to your safety.”

“And if I say no?”

He rubs his forefinger across the soft leather of his glove. There is definitely something off about this woman- she’s calm, but still somehow giving off an air of nervousness that he finds unsettling. The only reason she could be nervous was if she was already aware of the threat.

“I was hoping Captain America might have been motivation enough, ma’am,” he jokes, trying to calm her.

She rolls her eyes, “If that was the effect Shield was going for, they’d have done better sending in Black Widow.”

He coughs, “Uh- duly noted. But I’ve been instructed not to take no for an answer, Miss Lewis. Your safety is a matter of national security.”

“I’m sorry Captain, but today is your not-so-lucky day, because I am _not_ going into ‘ _Shield’_ custody.”

Steve frowns at the curious way she says Shield. As though the name is a joke. He reaches for the firearm strapped to his thigh, loaded with those handy neurotoxin bullets.

Lewis’ eyes flash dangerously, and from the pocket of her hoodie she pulls out a small, close range taser.

“You’re making a mistake, Captain. Please don’t tempt me to use it. Shield is not what you think it is.”

He pauses, frowning at her, “Shield is not the bad guy here, ma’am.”

Lewis laughs at him; short and bitter. “Oh, it really, _really_ is.

“What did they tell you about me, Captain? That I’m a small-time hacker the anarchist leanings? A permanent student? What could I have possibly done to put myself at risk that could merit Shield’s witness protection?” she smiles at him, thin and strained, “Or maybe, they told you I was Tony Stark’s daughter. High profile man like him, that’d be reason enough, wouldn’t it?”

Steve sets his jaw. Those _were_ all facts he’d read about her in his briefing packet. “They said the pair of you were estranged. It’s why we’re offering you protection in the first place; Stark refused.” The information infuriates Steve; he can’t imagine abandoning his own flesh and blood like that. He expects Lewis to feel the same, but she only glares at him like he’s said something spectacularly foolish.

“ _Don’t_ presume to know my father, Captain Rogers. Tony Stark may be an infuriating man, but do you really think he’d have _ever_ let his daughter stay out of his life after he came back from that shit show in Afghanistan?”

He bites his lip, thinking critically about the man he’s met and worked with only a handful of times. Stark is arrogant, antagonistic and impulsive, but everything he did ultimately points to a man that has the best interests of others at heart.

 “No,” he grits out, feeling foolish now for letting himself believe that, “I suppose not.”

The woman hums and shifts her feet. Light from outside her window catches on her glasses and hides her eyes. “Exactly. And you can’t tell me that Shield doesn’t know that already. So if it’s not because of dad, it means they want me for something else.”

Steve keeps quiet. She smiles at him again. “Did they ever mention that I know Thor?”

He startles, “Thor?”

“You know, big, beefy blonde. Veritable giant with a hammer?” Steve bites his tongue; his briefing _hadn’t_ mentioned that, no. She smirks. “I bet that file of yours didn’t say that I used to work for Jane Foster too- Thor’s lady love. I was her intern in Puente Antiguo ** _,_** when he and his buddies and that Destroyer came down. Jane, Erik and I were first contact. And I stayed her intern right up to the Battle of Manhattan, when Shield decided they needed to keep Jane safe, but her science grunt wasn’t worth the hassle.”

“And what… you think Shield wants your knowledge? Information they could easily get straight from Dr Foster?”

“Oh sure,” she snorts. “They’d totally do that, if Jane trusted them even the slightest.”

“What would Shield want with her research anyway?”

She shrugs, “Jane’s work could open a lot of doors. Successful application of her theorems could potentially change our place in the universe. But that’s not the problem. _Shield_ doesn’t want her research. Hydra does.”

Steve’s blood runs cold.

“Come again?”

She bites her lip. The hand still holding her taser tightens, as though readying herself to use it. “I’m sorry to break it to you, Captain, but Hydra’s been masquerading as Shield ever since its conception.”

“How could you _possibly_ know that? If what you’re saying is true- if the corruption ran that deep-”

“What, more people would notice? You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But Hydra’s upped their game since you went and offed their leader. And that’s the beauty of compartmentalisation ** _;_** it’s a _very_ good way of hiding a very ugly secret.”

“Then how do _you_ know?”

She glances to the side, where the gutted computers sit like broken things. “I’m a _very_ good hacker. I’ve been watching Shield for years- ever since they stole all of Jane’s research. And you watch them for long enough- go through enough of their files- and you start to work out a pattern.”

Steve shakes his head in disbelief; the mere _thought_ that everything Peggy and Howard had built is tainted makes him sick to his stomach. “If Stark knew about this, he’d have exposed it.”

“My dad knows nothing of this.”

“ _Why_? Why not? Surely he’d be able to protect you.”

“Captain, I have good reason to suspect Hydra was behind not only the death of my grandparents, but a substantial number of very influential and public figures. My father is many things, but he’s not subtle. I tell him, he’s _not_ going to keep it to himself. He’d tell the world, and then they would kill him.”

“Then why are you telling _me_?”

“Because Captain,” she murmurs, and pushes past him into her living room. He doesn’t miss the way she seems to avoid the windows. “There seems to be a general consensus that you are an inherently good man with a pretty strong grudge against Hydra. Who better to trust my life to?” She spares him a glance as she sorts through the books in her bookcase, humming when she opens one and pulls out a tiny SIM card. She pulls her phone from the pockets of her jeans and inserts it carefully.

“And besides, if Hydra wants to disappear me and squeeze every drop of Jane’s research out of my brain, I’m as good as dead. I don’t have anything left to lose.”

Steve watches her move through her apartment in a belated sense of shock. The woman has moved onto her kitchen, reaching into her pantry and pulling out a box of pasta that she promptly tears into. Amongst the lasagne sheets that scatter her counter, a portable hard-drive falls into her waiting hand. It’s tucked into her backpack, along with a number of flash drives hidden in various spots around her kitchen.

“Why- why me? Why would they send in me to retrieve you?”

Darcy looks up from cramming her bag with granola bars. “They don’t know that I know. If they did, I can assure you they _wouldn’t_ have send Captain America to come and retrieve me. They’d have sent a bullet. My best bet? This is a test.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re looking for your sweet spot.”

He frowns at her. “Sweet spot?”

“Hydra wants to see how little information they can give you, before you start asking questions.”

Steve wants to protest- wants to argue his good intentions- but there is no judgement in her voice. Only conviction. He studies her, moving around her apartment in a frenzy, removing pieces of technology from every hidden nook of the place. There’s every chance everything she’s just told him is a lie. That Hydra remains nothing but a line of history. But there are elements of her story that could easily be verified, and Steve’s instincts are telling him that she’s telling him the truth.

And if Hydra _is_ still around, then this is so much bigger than her. So much bigger than _Steve_.

“If everything you said is true. If Shield really is Hydra… what’s your plan of attack?”

She smiles at him self-depreciatingly. “For now? Get to Dad- get to the Tower. Hydra’s been planning something for months now. Mobilising forces, hiding shipments of weapons, upping their recruitments… there’s something big in the works, and I don’t think it spells good for anyone. The Tower has more resources than me, and it’s a hell of a lot more defensible.”

He swallows, mind already turning over the possibilities. If he fails to return with Lewis, if this really is a test, then Hydra will know that something is up. There’s every chance that they’ll bring forward whatever they’ve been planning, with who knows what consequences. But if he takes Darcy back to Shield, acts like nothing is wrong and investigate the corruption himself, then she’s as good as dead.

The greater good over the wellbeing of a few.

He knows what he’d choose any day of the week.

“Why should I help you?”

Darcy breathes out, long and slow. Her hands still on the zipper of her bag as she gazes at him solemnly.

“Because I need it? Because you’re Captain America? Because if something happens to me, my dad and Pepper will tear you apart with their bare hands?” A pause, “And… because I know what happened to your friend.”

He frowns at her in confusion, “What friend.”

“Bucky Barnes.”

The world goes very silent and very still.

How dare she.

How _dare_ she.

“Bucky fell- he died.” Anger bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, burning his eyes and closing his throat. He should just leave- get out of here. Because Buck’s dead, and anything that Lewis says is meant to snare him; entrap him.

And he’d been about to _help_ her.

“Who are you working for?”

“No one! They never found his body, did they? I found his file- he was found by the Russians/Soviets-”

(He can’t let himself believe. Can’t let himself start hoping.)

He draws his handgun, moving in close. Her eyes widen in shock and betrayal. “ _Who are you working for?_ ”

Lewis raises her hands, not even bothering to go for her taser. He wonders absently if it even works. “They experimented on him- sold him off to Hydra. Hydra gave him a metal arm and turned him into a weapon! Now they keep him on ice in between missions. He-”

“ _Don’t lie to me!_ ”

“I swear to you, Captain- on my father’s life- Bucky Barnes is _alive_. I’m _not_ lying!” She’s breathing heavily. Her hands are trembling. She looks terrified of him.

Of Steve.

The thought cuts through his fury like a knife through butter. He breathes out slowly, trying to reign it back, and lowers his weapon slightly. There are better ways to deal with this.

Darcy swallows audibly.

“He’s Hydra’s best kept secret,” she tells him, voice shaky. There are tears in her eyes, Steve notes in shame, “I only recognised him ‘cause of dad’s stories.”

“How long?”

She glances away, slumping against the refrigerator he’s crowded her up against. “Decades. Ever since he fell.”

His gut churns, chest constricting in pain. God- _Bucky_. He wants to tear something apart with his bare hands; rip at something ‘til he _bleeds_. Maybe the blood will stop the agony and the hope that’s trying to tear him in two.

“Where?”

Lewis is struggling to make eye contact now, but Steve doesn’t think it’s because she’s lying. He wonders what must be showing on his face for her to avoid looking at him. “I- I don’t know for sure, but I’m fairly certain they’re hiding him in New York, but there are hints that they’re preparing to move him to DC. Whatever plan they’ve got cooking, I think it revolves around the Triskelion.”

He pulls away, chewing on the information. There’s no question in Steve’s mind that they’re going to have to intercept that transfer… but how to do it without spooking Hydra with Darcy?

He’s going to need to get more people in on this.

“If you’re telling the truth…” Darcy nods her head at him vigorously, edging over to her backpack still sitting on the counter, “Then I’m going to need to make a few calls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt a lot more coherent when I was writing it....
> 
> I will not be going further with this fic, at this point in time, but if anyone ever wants to run with this (or any of my other fics up here, really), then they're more than welcome to do so, as long you ask me permission first :)


	13. Small Birds, Dry Grass; Taserbones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow Soulmarks AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, but I kind of really like this pairing...

Darcy Lewis is a wanted woman.

And not in the nice way either; oh no, there’s no handsome lover awaiting her. No happy reunion with long-lost relatives.

No, she’s only wanted for the things she knows. Or rather, the things people _think_ she knows- which, funnily enough isn’t actually all that much, and she is seriously regretting allowing Jane to put her name on those science articles she published six months ago. That shit has definitely chosen to return to bite her in her rosy ass.

“Fucking typical,” she informs her congregation of finches swarmed around her feet. She throws them another handful of seed and watches them flit about in a desperate frenzy, “Trust SHIELD to let itself be taken over by Hydra. Fucking Project Paperclip. That was a bad idea- baaad idea.”

The birds don’t reply. One particularly adventurous finch plucks a stray seed from the tip of her shoe. Darcy sighs gustily, “This place doesn’t even have a good selection of books. And forget about wifi; it’s all just men’s sports magazines and shitty action novels. You have no idea how bored I am, Horatio.”

The brave finch barely spares her a glance before returning to the swarm of brethren.

“I mean, I get it I guess; I’m even more at risk because I _don’t_ actually know anything. They’d just kill me if they knew- or at least use me as leverage against Jane.” She sprinkles another handful of seed over the birds. They’re surprisingly tame for such small creatures, “But couldn’t they have like, beefed up their library? Or at the very least, given me a dvd collection with more than just the James Bond movies? I’m going to have to resort to unnecessary _hiking_ if this keeps up. And they won’t like that; Darcy and nature are not friends.

“Except for you, Horatio. You’re cool.”

She sighs and tucks the remaining birdseed behind her, falling back to stare up at the wooden beams of the patio roof. She doesn’t even know which one is Horatio anymore.

“I blame Coulson for this.”

As well she should; if it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be chilling in her jim-jams in England with Jane, doing who fucking knows what with those machines of hers. But no- he’d come along spouting something about them being on Hydra’s wanted list, and they needed to leave right fucking now ‘cause Ian was not so much an intern as he was a Hydra plant, and he’d gone and told them Darcy knew _way_ more than she let on because he was mad at her for not ‘putting out’.

Or something along those lines, anyway. Then he’d gone and dropped her off somewhere in nowheresville, in who knew what country- though judging by the climate, she’d say it was somewhere on the Mediterranean, because that water is _blue_ \- with the shaky promise that they’d pick her up when the threat had been neutralised and an apology for not leaving her with company but they were all ‘terribly busy’ and ‘this house is as safe as it gets’.

Even from the not-so-real grave, he was a royal pain in the ass.

“Horatio, I am so _bored_. It’s been _four days_.”

Horatio and his friends titter good-naturedly by her feet. She hasn’t heard hide nor hair of anyone since she’d been dropped off, and this place is as remote as it gets. Tucked away in a sheltered bay, the house is nestled into the steep hills amongst half dead grass and scrubland. The only access points are the square patch of land beside the house that doubles as a quinjet pad, and the frankly obscene amount of stairs that lead straight down to the water below. It would be idyllic if it weren’t so goddamn _boring_ , and the house itself is not-so-much a house as it is a camouflaged hut with an admittedly spectacular view.

But it’s not even like she can utilise the ocean, because most of the day is hot enough to burn her pasty-ass skin in three minutes flat, and the only way she’d be able to go swimming is if she went in the nude; Coulson and his lackeys hadn’t exactly given her much of an opportunity to grab anything.

Plus. Those stairs.

Darcy sighs. Scratches at the words on her stomach absentmindedly- slightly raised (like scars), they always feel a degrees hotter than the rest of her skin. She wonders if she’ll be stuck here forever- if SHIELD will just forget about her and leave her here to rot. She’ll never meet them then.

(Sometimes she wonders if that’s a good thing)

The oppressive heat of the day is making her sleepy. She’s barely done anything today except feed the birds and attempt to convince herself to go down to the beach, but she feels as though she could easily sleep another hour or several. Her eyelids droop, and Darcy lets them close with little opposition. The wooden floor is warm, but not enough to be uncomfortable, though she’s sure her neck is going to regret this later.

“Maybe I’ll go down to the beach this afternoon,” she mumbles. Her words feel uncomfortably loud in her solitude and she grimaces. She chases after the sleep hanging on at the back of her mind and lets herself go under.

 

* * *

 

“Miss Lewis,” Captain America addresses her seriously, at odds with the criminally tight bathers he wears. The pasties over his nipples are patterned with the good ol’ stars and stripes, “I do apologise, but Iron Man sat on your laptop.”

He shows her the bent remains of her baby. Darcy gasps at the sight and bursts into tears. She’d saved up for months for that laptop. Captain America shifts uncomfortably in front of her; he looks disappointed.

“I tried to get him to fix it,” he tells her. Darcy cries harder, “But he was distracted by Iron Patriot’s chicken pen.”

Behind him, she notices Iron Man flying around in a large fenced enclosure, chasing a flock of ostriches. Iron Patriot shoots fireworks into the sky, whooping with laughter at his friend. She stops crying, frowning at the scene.

“Those are some really ugly chickens,” she informs him. The man shrugs at her helplessly.

“Black Widow says it’s under warranty still,” the Captain continues, “She said she can fix it, but you have to find her first. I think she went to the shops.”

Darcy nods and thanks him. She turns to leave, and gasps at the ground that falls away, leaving only a narrow path lined with tall, dead grass for her to follow. Dark waters crash and foam below her, the air rising from it hot and steamy. In the distance, Darcy can just make out the shadowy figure of a woman standing at the edge of an abyss. Her hair glints red for a moment on a passing beam of sunlight.

She looks down at the laptop she doesn’t remember taking from the Captain. Her heart aches a little at the sight of its broken form. The water is intimidating, but it’s not enough to deter her. She steps forward; the ground feels oddly spongy beneath her bare feet, the dirt is hot, as though she’s walking on the back of a giant.

The sounds of Captain America yelling at the other superheros drops away, replaced by the heaving sigh of the ocean; an endless rumble of water pounding into rocks. The sky turns dark grey and stormy. Thunder ripples through the clouds, like it’s water. She soldiers on, but halfway across seems to forget why she is even walking along this treacherous path. The thing in her hands has turned into a handgun. It seems to weigh a tonne and she shudders at the sensation of cold metal on her skin.

When she looks up, Agent- no, _Director_ Coulson is standing in front of her. His suit is as neat and pristine as always.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lewis,” Coulson says to her, but he’s smiling, “but you’re going to have to disappear for a while. You’re wanted by the wrong kinds of people.”

She stares at the shadowy figure that lurks behind Coulson. They raise a knife up to his throat and she screams, pulling up her gun and squeezing the trigger just like her Da taught her to when she was small.

The _crack_ that swells across the sky comes not from her gun, but from the ground at her feet. Coulson disappears- fading like so much smoke- but the shadowed figure remains, even as the ground crumbles away, falling down into the waters below and pulling her with them. She screams at him, but all she gets in return is the impression of a smile- pearly white teeth mocking her as she plummets.

Her body crashes into the water- blood hot- and she cries out, eyes flying open.

She stares up at the wooden beams of the patio, heart racing like she’s sprinted up and down those stairs a dozen times. Her legs feel hot and slightly numb.

“What the hell,” she groans, rolling onto her front, head resting in the crook of an arm. She barely remember what she was dreaming about, but the image of Captain America in speedos and pasties is seared into her mind in a way she’s certain she’ll never forget. “This is what happens when I don’t get internet for four days.”

There’s a soft snort from somewhere to the right of her and she starts, eyes opening again and locking in on the man lounging in one the deck chair on the little patio. She yelps, scrambling backwards until her back hits a wooden beam.

“Who the fuck are you this is meant to be a _safehouse_!” she snarls, curling away from him as if running away was even a viable fucking option.

The man huffs a laugh, lips pursing in a smirk as he glances down at his feet and then back at her, the vivid scarring around his eyes crinkling. He looks dangerous in his black shirt and cargo pants, heavy boots dusty and well-worn, even though his movements are clearly being telegraphed to come across as non-threatening.

And-

Okay.

So he is actually pretty hot. She’s always had a thing for boys with danger in their eyes- never enough to allow herself to get attached to them, but she’s aware of her kink. And scars or not, this guy is _smoking._ Not that it matters that much right now, because Darcy has a pretty strong feeling that he’s not meant to be here.

“Oh sweetheart, the things I’ve done trying to find you.”

Darcy’s world

Just

Stops.

Her breath catches in her lungs, heart seemed to stutter to a halt.

Holy shit.

_Holy SHIT._

The man’s smirk grows wider he slouches further into the chair, bringing up a leg to rest against the other. The movement breaks the spell; Darcy lets out a long gust of breath.

“You’re-” she breathes. He nods. “Holy shit.”

He snorts again, “I’ve been barging into safehouses for close to a decade now.” He admits. Darcy makes a sound that could be either a whimper or a giggle; she’s not entirely sure herself. She shakes her head at him in disbelief.

“And let me guess, you’ve been working on that line for about the same time.”

He grins, “Close enough to.”

“You’re not meant to be here,” she informs him, frowning.

The grin seems to grow even wider. His teeth are very white, “Nope.”

Darcy breathes in deep and slow. There was something inherently sinful about that smile- something a little feral to the twist of the scars around his eyes.

“I’m Darcy,” she tells him. He nods.

“Brock.”

“I’m your soulmate.”

“And I’m yours.”

She bites at her lip, “This is kind of unexpected, I’m not gonna lie. I may need a little time to process it all.”

The grin shrinks, but turns warmer- a little less wild- and _holy cow that jawline_. “Fucking _hell,_ ” she whimpers.

He raises a miraculously unharmed eyebrow (and really, where on Earth did he get those scars- he must have been lucky not to have lost his eyes), “There a problem?”

“I mean, besides you turning up at my safehouse unauthorised?”

He shrugs unapologetically. She huffs.

“Sorry, it’s just that you are like, _seriously_ hot. And seriously not meant to be here.”

Goddammit. She did not mean to say that.

The laugh seems to escape him against his will- a short and sharp thing that echoes across the little patio, “You’re pretty fine yourself, sweetheart.”

She blushes at the blatant once-over he gives her. Looks down at her hands; her nails are torn and peeling- a consequence of her boredom. Even with his evident approval, she feels uncharacteristically nervous. This man is her _soulmate_ ; Christ, and there she’d been thinking she’d never fucking meet him.

_Be brave_ , she tells herself.

She looks up. Brock’s smile has faded, but somehow she gets the impression that he is happy. She stands up, straightening the hem of her shirt self-consciously.

“Did you want a coffee? I- uh- I guess there’s stuff we need to talk about.”

He huffs a laugh, and stands too.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave you lot to determine what Brock is up to here....


	14. One Foot in Another World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Thor: The Dark World.  
> Darcy Lewis & Loki

Darcy is so very, very screwed.

“I lost her,” she breathes, stunned at the possibility. “How could I _lose_ her?”

The Intern stares at her dumbly. He used to have a name, but after that idiotic stint of his with the car keys, Darcy has decided that his naming rights were to be revoked.

She gives the Whatsits another whack against a concrete wall, but it shows no abnormalities beyond the one in the stairwell. She growls in frustration.

“Maybe she went to find a bathroom?”

Darcy gives Intern a stare that she sincerely hopes conveys just how stupid she finds that question, “Intern-”

“My name’s-”

“Intern. Your name is _Intern_. And I’m telling you right now, if you think for a second that Jane would have just disappeared to do who knows what, in the face of all this _science_ ,” she wave the Whatsits in front of him to prove her point, “then you’ve got another thing coming to you. I may not know what most of my job actually entails, but I _know_ that Jane wouldn’t just disappear like that. Not unless there was another anomaly. One that she’s ended up on the other side of, I mean.”

He blinks owlishly. Darcy tries very hard not to freak out at the thought. Times like these, Selvig would have been a pretty useful companion; regardless of how fucked over he’d been by Loki.

“Okay then,” Intern says, nodding rapidly, “what do we do?”

And fuck, but that’s the question of the fucking day isn’t it. What the fuck do they do about this?

“”You stay here,” she orders after some deliberation. She shoves Whatsits into his fumbling hands, “Keep your eyes _glued_ to this. You see so much as a _flicker_ , you call me, okay?”

He nods at her nervously, “What about you?”

Darcy huffs, pulling around her satchel to retrieve another piece of Jane’s tech. The range on Thing isn’t as good as Whatsits, but it’s more sensitive. Or at least, that’s how Jane had described it to her, “I’m going for a walk. See if I can’t find the anomaly that’s gobbled her up. Stay _there_ ,” she reminds him firmly, and turns to leave for the vague direction of where she’s fairly Jane had gone.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” she stops. Swallows back her nervousness and turns back around, “If I don’t come back in that time, call me. And if I don’t answer my phone, then you need to call this number.” She takes out her cell phone, pulling up the Shield help desk number Jack Booted Thug had thoughtfully left her, and writes it across the back of Intern’s hand with the sharpie stuffed into her ponytail, “They can help. Hopefully.

“Comprende?”

He nods slowly. Darcy feels remarkably put together in his presence.

She leaves before he can work out how freaked out she actually is. Which, for the record, if _very_ , because if Jane has gone through an anomaly, then there is literally nothing Darcy can do. She was a political science student, for fucks sake. She only stayed with Jane as her perpetual intern and scientist minder because she like the woman, and there was always that looming threat of what Shield would do to her if she left.

She pushes down on the rising panic for the meantime, and begins a methodical sweep of the warehouse, starting from the doorway that they’d entered. Intern watches her from the stairs as she weaves from wall to wall. She’s not one hundred percent sure how big Thing’s range is, but she’d rather be thorough and waste her time than quick at passing Jane’s anomaly entirely.

“I swear to Thor, Jane,” she mutters quietly to herself after only five minutes. She’s moving quickly, but she still feels like an idiot, and Intern’s silent staring isn’t helping any, “If you really have just gone to the toilet, I will punch you so hard in the vagina, your future half-god babies will feel it.”

Was that an excessive threat? It probably was. Darcy is past the point of caring.

She weaves around the overturned truck, the weakened gravity that had let it bob around like an air-filled balloon now gone.

Thing beeps.

Darcy stops dead, eyeing the truck warily.

“Uh, Darcy?” Intern calls out. She can’t see him from this side of the truck, “Darcy the machine just beeped at me!”

She swallows. Thing’s beeps grow more insistent as she moves it to her right, away from the truck. If she lets her eyes unfocus, she can just make out a slight ripple in the air- a rift in reality that she’s simultaneously fearful of and fascinated by.

“Darcy?” Intern asks again. He sounds on the verge of panicking, bless his soul, “It’s like, super close to you!”

“I know,” she replies, transfixed. It comes out softer than it probably should be.

Where does it go, she wonders. Does it lead to another planet, filled with fantastical things? Or does it end in space- if she were to stick her arm through, would she feel the warmth of an alien star upon her skin, or the bone deep ache of the endless void? Could she step through it, feel the sensation of her foot in another world, of being in two places at once? She almost wants to try, can feel the muscles in her arm twitching as though moving towards it of its own volition. Her fingers stretc-

Her phone rings, shrill. The spell breaks.

She curses, and suddenly the ripple is right up in her face, and she half sure she can _smell_ what’s on the other side- incense and something like pine-scented antiseptic _._ She cries out, hears Intern shouting for her, but the tear in the fabric of reality is still moving. She stumbles back and _trips_

The rift swallows her whole.

And it’s strange, really, because there’s no sensation of being torn apart. No warping of her senses as she’s ripped through time and space (or you know, whatever). She is simply in one place, and then she is not. Like she’s just stepped from one side of the room to another, not an entirely different world. The lack of discomfort is almost disorientating, and she lands on her ass with a shocked yelp.

Darcy takes a long moment to appreciate the fact that she’s not dead. She’s not even in the process of dying, which is truly remarkable. Her tailbone smarts something fierce, but that’s it as far as possible injuries go. Darcy breathes a sigh of relief. The room she’s in is strange- three white walls, and the fourth one a long expanse of golden energy that somehow makes the shape of a wall. Or window. There’s very little furniture. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say it was a-

A prison cell.

“Oh, _fuck me_ ,” she breathes. It would be typical, wouldn’t it, that by some kind of _monumental_ cosmic joke, Darcy has managed to transport herself onto an alien world and _straight into a prison cell what the fucking fuck._

A cold hand wraps around the back of her neck, beneath her scarft. She freezes.

“Don’t move,” a voice tells her softly. The hand squeezes in warning, “Or I will snap your neck.”

Darcy is perfectly content to follow that order.

“Who are you?” the man (or at least, the body attached to the hand attached to her neck _sounded_ like a man. But who knew- maybe they weren’t) demands, voice soft and icy cold, his words oddly formal, “How did you get in here?”

Darcy licks at lips that feel uncharacteristically dry and chapped, “I don’t-” her voice breaks. She clears her throat and tries again, “There was an anomaly. I was looking for Jane- one sucked her up, I had to find her. Then one grabbed me- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come barging in here, I don’t even know where I am. Oh God, am I stuck here now? Fuck how am I gonna get home, oh fuck- _sorry-_ ”

“ _Silence_ ,” they hiss at her. The hand squeezes again. Darcy’s rambling cuts off soundly, “Where do you come from?”

“E-Earth,” she stutters.

The fingers twitch, “Midgard?”

_Midgard_. That meant Earth, didn’t it? She can vaguely remember Thor calling it that at some point or another.

“Am I- am I on Asgard?” She ventures cautiously. There is a sharpened intake of breath behind her, and suddenly there are hands, curling into the shoulders of her coat and pulling her up, spinning her around and thrusting her against one of the painfully stark walls.

“How do you know of Asgard?” the man snarls at her, all up in her face as though he belongs there. His green eyes flash dangerously.

Darcy gapes at him, not even caring that her head is ringing slightly from the rough treatment. He is painfully familiar- the angular panes of his face, the slicked back hair, the _green_.

“You’re Loki. Ohmigod what the hell universe?”

Because _of course_ she’d end up sucked in by a wormhole or whatever and dumped right into the hands of the megalomaniac that had tried to take over Earth with his alien army just over a year ago. _Of course_.

His lip curls, “Is this Midgard’s pathetic attempt at assassination?”

She can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes her at _that_ one, “Dude, do I fucking _look_ like an assassin? What am I gonna do, snap your neck with my fucking _bird hands_?”

His eyes slide to her hands- which are small, her fingers short and bony- pressed as they are up against the wall to show him she’s not armed. Man, that taser would come in mighty handy right about now.

_Shouldn’t have left it in the car_.

“I will ask you again, mortal. _How did you get in here_? Asgardian cells are the most secure in the nine realms.” Darcy doesn’t miss the slightly bitter delivery of that last line.

_Good,_ she thinks.

“How did you get in here?” he growls at her again when she doesn’t answer. The hands in her jacket curl tighter, shaking her a little. The curl of his lips are vicious.

“There was an anomaly dude!” she gasps, pointing to Thing, left sitting on the ground where she’d fallen, “Something weird’s happening- Jane was investigating it, then she disappeared so I went investigating, and the anomaly sucked me it!”

“The anomaly?”

“Or wormhole or whatever! There’s something wrong with reality- gravity goes weird, things traveling between worlds! We don’t know what it is, and I’m super sorry man, I didn’t mean to come here and rain on your parade! I didn’t even know where the thing would go-”

“A wormhole,” Loki the Megalomaniac breathes. He lets out a soft, wondrous laugh, “A _wormhole_.”

Darcy bites at her lip. She has the worst feeling that she’s told him something very bad. For the rest of the universe, anyway.

He grins at her, wide and slightly unhinged, with far too many teeth for her liking, “The convergence is upon us.”

“Convergence?”

He lets her go, stepping back to pick up Thing, “The alignment of the nine realms. It happens only once every five thousand years.”

“And… and that’s why reality’s been acting all weird?”

“Indeed,” he says, staring at Thing intently. “Do you know how to use this?”

Darcy stays silent. She has a fairly good idea of what he would want to use it for. Loki glances up at her, anger flashing across his face. He lowers Thing and turns to face her completely, “Do not toy with me, mortal.”

“Oh no. Nuh-uh- there’s no way I’m telling you how to work Thing.”

His eyes narrow dangerously. Darcy feels as though she’s standing before a hungry lion, “Wrong answer.”

Darcy just out her chin in pure defiance- if she’s about to die, then at least she can say she did so with the irreverence Loki deserves, “No.” His upper rises in a silent snarl; she holds her tenuous ground and somehow finds the bravery to smirk at him, “Not many people say that to you, do they?”

“Those that do live to regret it.”

She pouts at him unsympathetically and leans against the wall with folded arms, “Tough titties.”

Loki draws back, thoroughly affronted at the turn of phrase, “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You fucking heard me buddy- I’m not telling you fucking anything more, Mister I-tried-to-overtake-the-Earth-with-an-alien-armada. You can just-”

Thing beeps again- rather insistently. She shuts up. Loki stares at the machine like it’s a puzzle to be deciphered (technically it is, she supposes).

“Why did it just-”

“It’s low on battery. Normal sound, just ignore it.”

Thing beeps again. Darcy fiercely misses her Taser. Loki lifts Thing higher, staring at the small led display. He smirks, “You’re not a very good liar.”

“Fuck you,” Darcy says, eyes scanning the room for the returning wormhole, “I’m a fantastic liar.”

_There_. The slightest of irregularities in the atmosphere, like hot air rising from the van in the New Mexico sun. She makes to move towards it, but Loki’s already spotted it.

“Shit.” She launches herself off the wall- _too late-_ Loki’s closer than she and slipping through with a manic, delighted laugh. “Fuck,” she says. “ _Fuck._ ”

She pauses for only a moment. There is every chance this is going to end very badly, “Fuck.” She says again, and takes the final leap through the wormhole.

On the plus side, she could at least tell Jane at the end of this that she did try to guard Thing with her life.


	15. Please, Lets Go Home: Darcy/Natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy Lewis/Natasha Romanov, spending Christmas with family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished my Darcy/Natasha smut fic and was in the mood for writing some more, 'cause this ship definitely needs more love than it gets. ^.^

It’s not that Darcy hates Christmas.

Because she doesn’t- Darcy _loves_ Christmas. She _really loves_ Christmas. She loves the chill of winter, the multi-coloured lights in the dark of the late afternoon, the smell of pine and the ritual of collecting presents for those she loves. She likes the food- the smell of Christmas pudding and fruit mince pies, honey-glazed hams and turkey stuffing and _rumballs_. She loves the feeling of it all- the anticipation and excitement, the way the world seems to draw in close. It’s a good time of year. She likes this time of year.

It’s just the _day_ that she’s not so fussed about.

Darcy knows that this is a direct result of her family. The extended Lewis family are… memorable. And rude. And opinionated. And racist and ignorant and spending time with them on Christmas day has been an unpleasant experience for her ever since she hit the age of about ten.

Darcy is a grown-ass adult, and she _really_ doesn’t like Christmas Day, and yet here she finds herself, once again at the mercy of her extended family for the next eight or so hours.

The hand holding hers tightens, and Darcy gives them a brief, strained smile.

“You didn’t have to go, птичка.”

She shrugs helplessly. “I kind of did. They’re _family_.”

Natasha levels her with a flat stare. Even in the garish Christmas sweater Bucky knitted for her, she looks lovely. “You and I both know that family isn’t relegated to blood.”

Darcy hefts the bag of gifts a little higher on her shoulder. There’s not much in it- only a few gifts to her parents and little brother, and some little things for the youngest of her cousins, as per tradition. “It’s once a year. Assholes or not, I can afford to give them that much.” Natasha gives her the side-eye, and Darcy turns her smile a little warmer.

“At any rate,” she says softly, and raps hard on the wood beneath the glitter encrusted Christmas wreath, “this year I have you.”

And she presses her lips to the hand still holding hers. Natasha’s lip quirks and Darcy’s stomach flops at the sight.

The door swings open, and Darcy gives her Aunt Carol a broad smile.

“Happy Christmas!” she greets the woman brightly. The smile on her Aunt’s face turns a little fixed as she takes in their clasped hands and matching sweaters.

“Hello Darcy,” she says. “I didn’t realise you’d be bringing a friend.”

She’s aware that her smile has turned a little vicious, but Darcy will be damned if she shows weakness in front of the woman. “This is my _girlfriend,_ Natasha.” She punctuates the last word with a hip-check. Natasha lets out a huff- as close to a laugh as she’ll get out in public. “I thought mom told you I’d be bringing a plus one?”

Her aunt nods and pulls open the door far enough for them to pass through. “Of course- I do seem to recall her mentioning that.”

They walk through- Darcy leading. She’s yet to let go of Natasha’s hand- and doesn’t think she’s likely to, either. Her skin is warm and soft and more comforting than the other woman could ever know as they pass her aunt and make their way into the living room.

The space peters off into silence at the entry. Darcy sends her family a smile that’s more grimace than anything, and dumps her bag of presents unceremoniously at the foot of the tree. She hopes she breaks something. “Happy Christmas!” she says to their shocked faces, and then drags Natasha away and into the kitchen.

Yeah, this Christmas is going to go about as well as can be expected.

 

* * *

 

 

Her relatives are a _misery_.

They’re all pointed stares, disgusted sneers and cold, stilted silences whenever she and Natasha attempt to join the conversation. Come lunchtime, she’s dying to just say ‘fuck it all’ and leave, but they haven’t even handed out presents yet, and leaving would be unforgivably rude.

She didn’t lie, though. This year she _does_ have Natasha, and whilst coming out to her extended family like this would be awful either way, at least she’s doing it with the woman she loves. She can tolerate the snide remarks from her cousins and the fixed and plastic smiles of her aunts for the day.

Even so, they hang back from the crowd when food is served, waiting with the plates until the worst of the crowd has taken their fill and are sitting down at various places around the house. It’s one of the few good things about a Lewis Christmas; none of her relatives are bad cooks.

As soon as their plates are full, Darcy drags Natasha outside to the porch. It’s cold out and the place is empty but for them. She breathes a sigh of relief when Natasha closes the door behind them, and sets her plate down on the wooden patio table.

“Thank God,” she breathes. The tense atmosphere inside rolls from her skin in the face of the light breeze, and she shivers at the way it cuts through her sweater as though it were nothing. She doesn’t care- she’d rather eat out in the freezing cold than spend another minute inside.

“Hey,” hums Natasha. She puts down her plate of food and draws in close, crowding her up against the back door, “We can leave at any point; you don’t have to stay here for these people.”

Darcy sighs, and knocks her head up against the wood. “I know.” She closes her eyes and lets the other woman trace her fingers across her brow and down to her lips. “I thought I could hold out until after presents, though.”

Natasha’s fingers are warm as they run over her lips and Darcy shivers at the touch. A hand spreads across her face, cupping her cheek gently. It feels like a brand against her skin. Darcy opens her eyes.

Natasha is smiling at her.

Darcy sighs and nuzzles at her hand. “I love you,” she murmurs, quiet enough that even she can barely hear it.

Natasha huffs a laugh, hot air coming out in plumes of fog. “You are too good for me,” she breathes, but there’s a smile to her words that makes Darcy grin.

“I am pretty amazing,” she replies, brushing the comment away for another time. Natasha is beautiful and poised and deadly and all the things that Darcy wanted to be when she was younger and more insecure. She’s a contradiction; cold, like the surface of a frozen lake that holds a hidden warmth- an active volcano encased in snow. It’s always a surprise to realise just how much the other woman loves her. Her grin turns wicked, “You should kiss me.”

An eyebrow quirks, and Darcy takes the opportunity to rest her hands on Natasha’s waist. “Should I, now?”

She nods vehemently, “You promised me a reward for this.”

Natasha’s little smile grows wider. “And you wanted to cash in now?”

She tugs at the lapels of her jacket, pulling her in close enough that their hips meet and their breath intermingles. Natasha smells like wool and the peppermint candy cane she stole off the Christmas tree when they first arrived. “Call it a sneak preview?”

Natasha’s eyes glitter at her in amusement. “I adore you,” she says, and kisses her.

Darcy sighs into the kiss, heart stuttering like it always does- even now, months after they’ve been together. Natasha lips are warm and pliant against her own, moving soft and tender over hers like she’s mapping out the texture of her lips. Darcy breathes in sharply when her tongue runs across her upper lip, the faintest tease before the redhead is leaning into her heavily, tongue moving deeper as she cradles Darcy’s face, her cold fingers digging ever so slightly into the soft flesh of her cheek. She tastes of peppermint and Darcy lets Natasha take over her mouth, kiss turning hot and dirty as though they’re back at home instead of macking out on her aunt’s patio.

She whimpers ever so softly, because she knows Natasha loves the sounds. Sure enough, Natasha seems to go at her mouth with more fervour and Darcy’s breath hitches when Natasha slides her leg between hers, pressing against her in a way the sends heat running up and down Darcy’s spine. She whines- almost silent- and bucks against Natasha’s leg, seeking friction-

The brash sound of laughter close to their door breaks them apart, heated breath mingling when Natasha refuses to move further away. Her lips are red, hair a mess and Darcy yearns for her so fiercely it’s like a visceral pain.

The laughter fades and Darcy relaxes slightly. She tugs at Natasha’s hair softly and the other woman smirks at her.

“Are you sure you want to stay?”

Darcy’s eyes slide over her to the food that still sits on the table. It’s bound to be cold by now. “Not really,” she sighs, thinking of the heat between her legs, and presses another kiss to her lips. Natasha huffs and Darcy rolls her eyes when she pulls away. “Okay _fine_ ; please, can we go home now?”

The smile Natasha gifts her with is the widest one she’s made all day.


	16. Unearthed Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> American Horror Story X-over, Sam/Steve/Bucky

Darcy watches in mute resignation as the mover’s truck pulls up in the driveway. She’s been holing this day would never come, but it always does.

“Who do you think it is?” Jane asks. Darcy barely spares her a glance, eyes intent on the men stepping out of the truck.

“The gay couple,” she says with certainty. Jane sighs.

“Maybe this time will be different,” she reasons. “Maybe nothing will happen. It does that sometimes.”

“Maybe.”

Jane rests a hand on Darcy’s shoulder in consolation, before moving away. “I’m going to find Thor.”

She doesn’t answer and the other woman leaves. The room feels emptier without her. Darcy shivers in her absence, the pull of the yard almost too much for her to bear for a moment. She rests her hand against the cool panes of glass, eyeing the SUV that parks on the street. The men that emerge from the front are familiar- they came with the realtor a month ago- but the other guy with them is new. She watches them walk across the lawn; eyes the hand that rests momentarily at the small of the brunette man’s back. The fond looks the three of them share.

Darcy swallows nervously.

“Or maybe not,” she murmurs to herself, and ducks out of sight when the third man turns and looks up at the house, dark eyes skimming across the second story with a perfunctory motion.

“Maybe it’ll be the same as ever.”

 

* * *

 

The gay couple, Darcy quickly learns, is _definitely_ more of a triad.

Once, that kind of arrangement would have had her raising an eyebrow and scrupulously avoiding any discussion whatsoever regarding their living arrangements. But she passed the point of caring about those kinds of things many years ago. Love is love, and as far as she can tell, the three of them share a healthier relationship than many of the couples she’s encountered.

They’re not perfect. Thor says they share the look of men who have seen war, and Darcy thinks of the dark-haired man- Bucky, his lovers call him- and the empty space from just above his elbow, and quietly agrees with him.

All three jump at loud, unexpected noises. All three can be caught staring off into space, expressions ranging from blank to deeply troubled.

All three have nightmares.

They all react differently when they wake.

Steve retreats to the basement and pounds out his distress into the aged sandbag that hangs from the ceiling. Sam bakes; cookies, cakes, slices and pies- it doesn’t matter what it is, his ‘boys’ will consume everything within a day or two (their appetites are frankly appalling, but Thor only laughs and boasts that they barely reach his). Bucky shuts down- goes down to the living room and watches tv until morning comes. The empty look on his face _haunts_ her. She hates it; wishes she could curl around him and hug his pain away, but if his lovers can’t do anything, then for sure she’d never manage.

None of them ever go back to sleep. Darcy and Jane admire their ability to function on only a few hours of rest (though she does note that they go through a staggering amount of coffee).

Sometimes, she feels bad about being here (she always feels bad about being here); this is their home, and Darcy can never escape the sensation of being an unwanted interloper- some skeezy freak spying on their lives. She recruits Jane and Thor into keeping the others at bay, partly out of guilt.

The others… they’re a mixed bag.

Clint is a mess of a man- he’s clumsy, thoughtless and crass, but he’s a good egg, and his adoration of the reclusive Natasha is always a source of amusement. Tony is eccentric and obnoxiously smart, and Darcy and his wife Pepper are often forced to drag him and Jane apart from one of their overenthusiastic arguments. The twins are odd and keep mostly to themselves, though Darcy and Wanda get on well enough. They’re all good people.

Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones here.

Banner is a quiet and sweet man with a gentle disposition, but he has _rages_. Moments of consciousness where he is an unstoppable wave of violence and anger that leaves nothing but destruction in its wake. For the most part, it’s Thaddeus Ross that brings them out, but not always. She’s not 100 percent certain about their history, but there’s enough bad blood between him and his father-in-law that most of the time they stay far away from each other.

Ultron is a pyromaniac with little patience for ‘weakness and sentiment’. He’s set fire to the house on multiple occasions; once with him in it… the other, with Tony, Pepper and Jarvis. Darcy doesn’t like to go near him- there’s a violence to him that never leaves, and a fire in his eyes that promises to set the world alight if he were able.

And then there’s Loki.

Loki, the murderer. Loki the poor, forgotten step-brother, bitter and angry about his place in the world. Loki, with a fondness for knives and lies and darker things.

Loki the witch. The monster. The wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Darcy would be lying if she said she isn’t concerned about him the most. Thor and Natasha and Clint take turns, keeping him at bay. For the most part. But there have been times when they’ve failed, and those times are always followed by grief. He is their demon; their curse that can never be lifted. Only postponed.

Darcy _hates_ Loki.

With the new tenants, the guard over Loki doubles. They work in shifts throughout the day, pinning him down through sheer force of will. Darcy is perhaps overzealous about her time with him- often he fades to little more than a shadow when she is near- but she refuses to let him hurt the men that now live here. She may not know them, but she is certain that they deserve happiness.

She should scare them out. She knows this; they’ve done it before and they can do it again. But something stops them. These men have seen war- have witnessed horrors untold. What can any of them do that could send them away?

But they should try anyway. These men don’t belong here. Not in this house.

This house is not fit for the living.

 

* * *

 

“Darcy,” Jane breathes, appearing in front of her, “they’re digging up the back yard!”

Darcy jumps, and stares at her friend with wide, startled eyes. “They’re _what?_ ”

Jane pulls at her arm. Tugs her over to a window. “The lemon trees. They’re cutting down the _lemon trees_ \- Steve said they’re going to put in a Jacuzzi!”

A strange mix of excitement and horror gathers in her gut. Already she can hear the nasal drone of a chainsaw, and the muffled crash of limbs falling to Earth. When she looks outside, she sees Sam, going at the trees. They’re ugly things- twisted and diseased, they always grow lemons that are more pith than fruit.  

Darcy grasps at Jane’s hand and squeezes tightly. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she murmurs, trying to quell the odd feeling swelling in her chest. “They might not even dig down-”

“They _will_. Darcy, they have an _excavator_.”

“Oh,” is all she says in reply. She presses her face to the glass and they watch in silence as the men dismantle their trees and begin to dig. It’s slow work- the trees have lots of roots, and Steve has to often come in to cut them with a shovel before Bucky can continue.

They’ve stopped for perhaps the tenth time when Steve’s posture changes. He turns and shouts to his lovers for their attention. There is something close to horror on his face.

“ _Jane_ ,” Darcy says. She thinks she wants to say something more, but words have escaped her. Her friend squeezes her hand tightly.

Through the window, Darcy watches Steve mouth the word ‘bones’ as his partners hurry over to him. He drops to his knees and begins digging with his bare hands.

The back of his neck is burnt, Darcy notes absently. The pull of the yard is stronger than ever, and this time she doesn’t resist.

The sun is bright, but it holds no heat. She knows it must be hot- all three men are sweating profusely, and Sam had taken his shirt off an hour ago. In the open, she can hear them clearly- Steve’s frantic panting, the anxious shuffle of Bucky’s feet and Sam’s quiet cursing. Sam’s cursing only grows louder when Steve pulls out the skull. The unadulterated shock on his face is unforgettable.

“They said someone died here, but they never _fucking mentioned informal graves_ ,” Bucky breathes. Steve shakes his head, and turns the skull over with great care.

The eye sockets are littered with strange, sharp looking nicks. “I don’t think this was the death they were talking about, Buck,” Steve says softly. He runs a finger around the ruined edge of an eye socket.

Darcy wants to cry.

“Fuck- fucking fuck _fuck_ ,” curses Sam. He looks equal parts angry and horrified, his hand covering his mouth as though trying to stop himself from vomiting. “We’re living in a murder house- fucking _shit_. No wonder the place was so fucking cheap. _Fuck!_ ”

“Who do you think it was?”

Bucky crouches down beside Steve and gently takes the skull from his hands. “A woman, I think.” His lovers give him twin looks of disbelief, but the man just shrugs, “What? The nose and brow’s aren’t as pronounced- I saw something about it in some forensics show.”

Sam shakes his head, “You and your crime shows, man. I’m really hoping this is the only time it comes in handy.”

“I’ve never touched a skull before,” Bucky replies. Sam and Steve’s looks of disbelief turn appalled.

“I’m not sure if that’s inappropriate or just a really weird thing to say when holding an actual person’s skull in your hand.”

Darcy can’t keep quiet any longer. “If you dig a little to the right, there’s another one,” she says, making herself visible to them.

Sam and Steve yelp in surprise. Bucky drops the skull and suddenly there’s a wicked looking knife in his hand, pointing her way.

Darcy stares at the skull in dismay- he dropped it onto a stray rock, smashing part of the back of it. “That was Jane’s,” she tells him sadly.

“Who the _fuck_ are you? This is private property,” Bucky growls back. Darcy crouches down in front of Steve and points at the disturbed earth.

“Mine’s there.”

She watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down in a kind of morbid fascination. From the house, she can hear Jane shouting at her angrily; she wonders if she’s put out by Bucky breaking her skull. Probably not- she never cared about her hidden remains like Darcy. Jane had always been somewhat unattached to reality, in a way that Darcy could never be.

“Please find it,” she murmurs, eyes locked on Steve’s still. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. The thought almost puts a smile on her face. Almost.

She takes what’s left of Jane’s skull from Bucky’s feet and cradles it against her chest. It feels surprisingly light, considering how much they tend to hold.

“Thor’s body went under the other lemon tree.”

The men stare at her. She offers them a little smile. It feels more like a grimace.

“Who are you?” Bucky asks lowly. “What are you doing on our property?”

“My name’s Darcy.” She holds up the skull with its ruined eyes, “And this is Jane. I don’t think she’ll say hi, though; she’s a little shy.”

His lip curls. “You’re _sick_.”

“No, I’m not,” she shakes her head. “I’m dead.”

They stare at her doubtfully. She puts the skull down carefully. “I’ll prove it,” she says, one moment in front of them, the next moment behind them. “I’m _dead_.”

“How did you do that?” Steve asks, hand reaching for his shovel. Bucky looks like he’s about ready to actually throw his knife at her, but Sam’s hand on his forearm holds him back.

“Please find me.” Darcy bites her lip. The pull of her remains is stronger than ever- now she remembers why she doesn’t come out here. “I haven’t seen the light of day in nearly forty years. I want to know if my bones can feel the warmth of the sun.”

She sits down before them, then thinks better of it and appears on the other side of her grave. She presses Jane to her chest. “Please,” she says softly. The spin around again at the sound of her voice.

“You need to stop doing that, girlie,” Sam warns her. “You’ll make us dizzy; then where will you be?”

“In a yard full of pretty men,” she smirks. He laughs. Even Bucky manages a smile.

"Where did you say you were?" he sounds mostly like he's humouring her, but she points anyway and Steve begins to dig. 

“Be careful, please. Jane wouldn’t mind you breaking her head, but I’d rather you keep me intact. It’d be a shame to ruin a face like this.”

“Noted,” Steve mutters, and his movements slow. Darcy nods in approval. She sits in silence, watching him cut through the roots of the lemon tree with the shovel. The muscles of his arms flex and move in the most enticing of ways, and she takes great pleasure in watching him.

Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“He’s _ours_ ,” he tells her, a hint of possessiveness creeping into his voice.

Darcy gives him her most wicked smile. “I know.”

Sam's eyes widen at the sudden realisation. "Oh Jesus,” he breathes, “if you're-”

She nods at him sagely. "I am."

"Then-”

“Ah huh.” Her eyes flicker down to his bottom half pointedly, “Though, to be fair, we do tend to avoid your bedroom. We’re dead, not _perverts_. Or, well, most of us aren’t”

He runs a large hand across his face. Steve seems to be more focused on his digging than ever; she’s not sure if the redness on his face and neck is from the heat of the day, or just embarrassment.

“ _We?_ ” Bucky asks, appalled.

She levels them with a flat stare. “You realise they call this _the_ murder house. Sure, they told you about Banner and the Ross’s, but they’re not required to tell you any more than the last three years.” She frowns at them, “Didn’t you guys look it up?”

Sam glares at his lovers. “I _told_ you it was weird this house was so cheap!”

“Just because someone died here doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the house! People die all the fuckin’ time in their homes-” Bucky argues.

“Well obviously it _does_!” he points at Darcy, “Because now we got weird girls asking us to dig up their forty year old bones!” he blanches, “Uh- no offence.”

“None taken,” she says absently, and runs her thumb around Jane’s left eye socket. The surface is sharp and pitted. “I’m not the vengeful type. This is probably pretty weird for you.”

“Weird is _not_ the word I would use,” Bucky mutters.

“Yeah,” says Sam, “try fucked up.”

Darcy just shrugs.

Steve stops digging. He glances up at her, blue eyes looking bleached in the stark midday sun. His mouth opens and closes like a trapdoor, words escaping him.

“You found me,” she breathes, already knowing it to be true. She’d felt the scrape of the shovel on her head only moments ago. She shuffles, rising up onto her knees to see into the pit better, “Pull me out- pull me out!”

Steve sends her an incredulous look (Darcy doesn’t mind. It’s better than the stricken look he’d been sending her before), but does as he’s told.

And-

Oh

God.

But she can feel _warmth_. On her head, in her core- what once should have been her bones. “Oh,’ she croons, as Steve shows her skull the light of day. “ _Oh_.”

There are tears running down her face. She wipes them away in a mix of shock and joy. “I- ah- I didn’t expect this,” she stammers, and twists herself away from them. She runs her fingers around the eyes of Jane’s skull once again, then thinks better of it. Lord, but that must feel very strange for her friend. “Do you feel it, Janey?” she murmurs to the skull and holds it out to the sun like an offering to God. “Can you feel the sun?”

“Yes, I can Darcy.” Jane says, standing before her with a cross expression on her face. “And it feels lovely, but you’re making a scene in front of the living.”

She grins at the other woman with tears in her eyes. “Worth it.”

Jane’s eyes slide over her to take in the current owners of the house. “I suppose it _is_ a good view.”

“It’s a _very_ nice view.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Bucky asks behind them, bewildered. Darcy looks at the three of them from over her shoulder. Steve is still holding her skull- the expression on his face says he doesn’t really want to, but can’t bring himself to put it down.

“Jane. She says you’re all very pretty.”

Jane makes a soft sound of outrage. “ _Darcy_!”

“Uh,” says Sam. “Thanks?”

“For God’s sake, Darcy-”

“She says you’re welcome.”

Jane sighs and looks up at the sky as though praying for the patience to go on. “I suppose,” she manages eventually, “You should tell them they’re not safe. Now that you’ve gone and made yourself visible to them.”

Darcy wipes the rest of her tears away. “You’re right,” she whispers. “I got distracted; sorry.”

“It’s okay,” a small hand runs through her hair. “I know how much this all means to you. But they can’t stay here. If Loki doesn’t get to them, then I fear Ultron will; he’s been muttering to himself more than usual lately.” Darcy shudders at the thought. Either of those things would be very, very bad. Jane nods at her, and retreats back to the house. Darcy feels alone without her, even with the three men she’s with.

“You need to leave.”

Sam’s eyebrow rises, “Say what now?”

She stands up abruptly. “Leave. You need to leave. This house isn’t fit for the living.”

Steve frowns at her. “This is _our house_.”

“No,” she shakes her head at him, “it’s not. You think it’s yours because you bought it, but the dead have outnumbered the living here for a hundred years. And not all of us are the peaceful type.”

All three of them stiffen. “Are you- are you _threatening_ us?” Bucky says in disbelief. Darcy shakes her head vehemently.

“ _No!_ I’m trying to warn you- this house is cursed. We can’t leave- but you can. And the longer you stay here, the more you put yourselves at risk.”

“From who?” he scoffs. “ _Ghosts?_ ”

She growls at them in frustration and holds up the skull. “You think I’m the only one who can hold physical things?” She takes a step forward and lets the glamour she holds around herself fall away, revealing the form she’d held when she’d died.

The three of them suck in a breath, eyes widening in shock. “The man who did _this_ to me died here too,” she snarls at them through broken teeth and blood pouring from her slit throat and wrists. “And he is angry. He is _always_ angry. We’ve been holding him at bay for you, but sooner or later, one of us will slip up.”

Darcy pulls up her old glamour again, “He’ll hurt you. And if he doesn’t, then one of the others will. Please. Leave.”

Steve shakes his head. “And where are we meant to go?”

She shrugs. “A friend’s? A hotel? Literally _anywhere_ but here.”

“We’re not just going to get up and leave because you say so.”

“You’re not _listening!_ ” she snarls, and then she’s up in his face, hands wrapping around his throat like she _means_ to strangle him. Steve’s eyes bulge and Sam and Bucky are shouting, hands gripping at her shoulders and throwing her backwards. She lands on the grass and she starts to laugh, crazed and manic, just like she’s seen on tv.

“You’re _insane_ ,” Bucky growls, and takes a step towards her, knife bared again. Behind him, Steve rubs his throat gingerly as he gasps for breath. There are red marks in the shapes of her fingers on the tanned skin. Darcy’s laughter turns to dry, tearless sobbing.

“ _Leave!_ ’ she screeches, and launches herself at Bucky. The man growls, hand rising and she gasps as cold steel punctures her form. “Go _,_ ” she breathes, and lets a little glamoured blood escape her mouth. “ _Go!_ ”

And then she turns herself invisible- lets the knife fall to the ground. She retreats to the house, where Jane looks at her disapprovingly.

“And who’s to say that will work?” she says crossly.

Darcy lets out a shaky sigh, and rests her head against a wall. Through the window she watches the men drop their tools. Sam and Bucky retreat to the house. She hears them hurry through the house, Sam running upstairs to their bedroom to haphazardly throw clothes into a suitcase whilst Bucky grabs their keys, phones and wallets. Steve collects their tools and heads around the front.

She stands hidden in the foyer to see them out. Natasha and Clint join her as the men breeze through, frantic in their movements.

“What did you do, Darcy?” Natasha asks. Darcy worries at her bottom lip.

“Gave them a scare,”

An arm wraps around her waist in comfort. “It needed to be done,” the other woman says softly. Darcy nods and slams the door closed behind them. The men shout and swear, and they watch through the stained glass of the door as the SUV pulls out of the driveway.

“I know,” she murmurs. Clint comes up beside her to rest a hand on her shoulder. “It still sucks though.”

Natasha hums. “Better you than Loki.”

Darcy stares down at her feet. She feels _dirty_. She’s never scared someone on her own before.

“Yeah,” she whispers- to herself more than anyone, “better me than Loki.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today on Cinna’s ‘what weird things does my internet history remember’: How much does a human skull weigh?  
> I swear, I’m not a freak. Just a writer.  
> Which, debatably, is one and the same, but the point still stands.


	17. The Sensation of Falling as Experienced in a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't written anything in here for a while.... Whoops. Enjoy this little fic while I work on a million other fix at once :P

The explosion is unexpected.

It tears through the lab, blasting away equipment like a strong breeze through a stack of paper, picking up Darcy and throwing her through what used to be a window. The glass that is meant to be there is long gone, splintered into a thousand tiny shards in _exactly_ the way Tony promised them it wouldn’t. She’s overtaken with self-righteous anger, but the sensation doesn’t last long because then she’s _falling_.

Is falling meant to be like this?

Like floating through the air, the ground approaching her with no sense of urgency. Is time slowing for her? Will she feel every bone that shatters- every nerve rent apart?

Even her winded screams feel like nothing more than a sigh, their sound drowned out by the deafening ringing in her ears. A slow push of air from her lungs, the wind tearing it away from her viciously. She catches sight of herself as she tumbles in the windows of the tower; eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless scream. She glitters like a fallen angel amongst thousands of shining diamonds. The experience is so surreal she could almost mistake it for a dream, but no dream of hers ever ends like this.

Darcy closes her eyes- she can’t bear the sight.

She hopes she doesn’t land on someone-

_-Oof-_

Thoughts of death are rudely interrupted by something wrapping around her torso, promptly followed by a sharp stop, as though landing on an oddly sticky trampoline. Her breath escapes her again, and her ribs flare up in agony as she _bounces_ , the thing wrapped around her chest tugging her upwards, as though attached to a bungee cord. Her eyes fly open in shock, but it’s like everything has been put on fast forward, the world streaking through her vision in streaks of colour- like smears of paint on canvas.

She tries to scream but it’s like trying to breathe through a pillow, and the pain in her chest is almost loud enough to drown out the ringing in her ears. She reaches the apex of her bounce- a momentary sensation of weightlessness before she’s falling again. She half-expects to land headfirst on the odd trampoline, but then there’s something else wrapping around her, lurching her backwards almost instantly.

The first strange bungee cord holds her and the two nets tug her back and forth like some kind of terrifying tug-o-war. It slows quickly, until she’s left hanging upside down between Stark’s tower and its neighbour.  

Darcy stares down at the world below with blurred vision, and works on trying to gain her breath back. It feels as though she’s broken several ribs, and there’s definitely something wrong with one of her shoulders, but there’s enough adrenalin rushing through her that she feels giddy with fear and relief.  

She _alive._

Darcy closes her eyes before she can start crying- or worse. When she opens them again, there’s someone in a red and blue costume hanging in front of her. They’re upside down- or rather, the right way up- and look far more comfortable suspended in mid-air than Darcy.

She huffs out a giddy, breathless laugh.

Spiderman.

“Should have figured it would be you,” she gasps.

Spiderman swings back slightly. She can’t make out his expression through the mask and her shitty eyesight, but she thinks he’s surprised.

“Me?” he asks her. He sounds young, voice garbled by her tinnitus.

Darcy wheezes in pain. “Out of all the superheroes I know, it’d be the one I don’t that ends up saving me.” She twitches in her straightjacket of web and groans when it jars _everything_.

“Know many superheroes, do you?”

She’d shrug, but she’s fairly certain at least one of her collarbones is broken. “A few.”

Spiderman looks up, behind her. Darcy imagines he’s gazing thoughtfully at the new hole in Avengers Tower. She’s not sure if it’s common knowledge that the top floors are reserved for the Avengers and Co, but she wouldn’t be surprised. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess you would.”

She breathes in as deeply as she dares, the threat of panicking still at the forefront of her mind. Her mouth tastes like blood, and the taste of metal and salt is unpleasant at best. It’s a struggle to swallow it down whilst hanging the wrong way up, but she’s loathe to spit it out onto some poor soul’s head.

“Do me a favour,” she grits out eventually, “and rub it in to Tony for me?”

“Uh,” the masked superhero says eloquently, “What?”

“The whole saving me thing. If you could kindly give him hell, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“Uh… Kay?”

She smiles at him grimly. Through the slowly fading tinnitus, she makes out the high pitched whine of repulsors and she rolls her eyes. “Speak of the devil,” she mutters. Spiderman looks up, and something about his movements looks nervous.

“Um- is that Ironman?” he asks, sounding somewhat awed. Darcy huffs angrily- she’s going to rip Tony a new one as soon as she’s high on painkillers and not hanging upside down several hundred meters above Manhattan.

“It bloody better be,” she grunts. “Thanks for the save, Spidey. You can go, if you wan’t. Stark can get a bit-”

“ _LEWIISSS!_ ”

“-Over-the-top.” Darcy finishes, her name being broadcasted loudly enough to echo against the endless expanse of glass buildings. She sighs painfully as Spiderman blanches.

“Yeah,” he squeaks, limbs already moving, “I’m gonna- uh-” he sticks out an arm and a long string of web shoots out to grab onto a building behind her and then he’s gone, leaving nothing but a pair of broken web-strings and Darcy.

“Thanks again!” she calls out, not bothering to turn around and watch him leave. Speaking is painful enough without her aggravating her ribs by trying to see him go.

“Darcy!” Ironman cries out to her. He pulls up in front of her abruptly, close enough that she can feel the heat of his repulsors. “Jesus kid, don’t go scaring us like that. Windows are for looking through, not jumping out of.”

Darcy closes her eyes. Her head throbs. “Tony, I am going to kill you.”

“So long as you let me sue the shit out of my contractors first,” he replies. His voice is shaky with relief through the speakers of his suit. “Fuck, Lewis, you scared the shit out of us.”

“Is Jane okay?”

Tony slides his faceplate up and stares at her, incredulous. “Seriously Lewis? You fall thirty floors out of my building and _that’s_ you concern?”

She swallows with some difficulty. “I don’t- I can’t…” she stops talking. She’ll cry if she says anything else. Tony’s face softens.

“She’s fine,” he says and _God_ , but the relief is all-consuming. “Pretty bad concussion, possibly a broken arm, but other than that, nothing life-threatening.”

Darcy sighs heavily. “Good,” she murmurs. Tony wobbles a bit where he hovers as a strong gust of wind blows through. ‘Now please, could you get me down from here? I’m rapidly developing a morbid fear of heights.”

He nods and moves towards her carefully. “Remind me to send Spidey a fruit basket.” He says, and cautiously picks her up, princess-style. With her arms confined by webs, she feels like an especially ridiculous caterpillar.

“You’ll be sending him more than a fucking fruit basket,” she grumbles and Tony huffs a soft laugh. He sobers quickly.

“Thought you were dead,” he says softly. Darcy closes her eyes. Her limbs feels heavy and uncooperative. Tony’s arms are hard and unforgiving, but she feels safe.

“So did I,” she slurs. They’re floating upwards, she thinks, and the urge to just stop thinking is overwhelming. She grimaces tiredly. “I think I’m going to just sleep,” she tells him, unsure if the words are blurring in more than just her head. He makes some kind of noise in protest, but Darcy is just so _tired._ She does bother trying to open her eyes- just ignores the man flying her back up to the Tower and allows herself to just-

Drift

Away.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget you can always check me out on [tumblr](http://cinnaatheart.tumblr.com/) :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Be Near Me Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754022) by [CinnaAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart)
  * [Surrender My Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804650) by [CinnaAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart)




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